



Class 

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Copyright N° 


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ALVIRA 

A Story of the War of 1812 


bv 


Edward Ruben 

U 


Author of The Path to Fame, and 
Miscellaneous Essays 


(Illustrations by F. Humphrey Woolrych.) 


Central Literary Publishing Co. 


ST. LOUIS, MO. 

1911 



Copyright 1910 
BY 

Edward Ruben 

Copyright 1911 
BY 

Central Literary Publishing Co. 

ST. LOUIS, MO. 

All Rights Reserved. 



PRESS OF 

Security printing Company 
of St. Louis, Mo. 


©CI.A295710 

h/ 


CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I Knights Errant 1 

II A Hecatomb 9 

III Before the Battle 21 

IV The Masquerade 32 

V Confessions 43 

VI Stern Reality 49 

VII Alone Against a Host 55 

VIII The Parting 61 

IX A Grave Mistake 68 

X A Tragic Scene 83 

XI A Metamorphosis 90 

XII A Novel Enterprise 100 

XIII Reception at the Hotel 107 

XIV A Serious Discourse 123 

XV A Friend’s Advice 133 

XVI Advice and Sacrifice in Vain 140 

XVII A Proposal 145 

XVIII A Pathetic Plea 154 

XIX A Rival 171 

XX A Letter from the Doomed. . 181 

XXI Inquest and Avowal 185 

XXII The Dreaded Suitor 197 


CONTENTS— Continued. 


Chapter Page 

XXIII Devising a Pleasure Trip 204 

XXIV Difficulties in the Way 213 

XXV The Elopement 221 

XXVI The Catastasis 229 

XXVII A Denouement 237 

XXVIII Awaiting Judgment 246 

XXIX A Strong Remonstrance 257 

XXX Relenting 264 


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ST. LOUIS MO. 


















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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

1. Vignette, Introductory Title. w* 

2. Frontispiece, Protrait of the Author. 

3. Masquerade, “Yes, I am a stranger here. 7 ’ . 32 ^ 

4. Alvira in the Fort, “It was a mistake to 

imagine you could be my friend. 77 86 

5. Woodson and Florence, “If you want me 

to go at once, I will do so. 77 150 ^ 

6. Woodson and Alvira, “My purpose was to 

speak to you about Mr. Victor 77 164 

7. Beardslow and Alvira, “Give me but one 

sign that you are touched by my suffering 77 .. 220 v 

8. Victor and Alvira, “Alvira stood with a 

firm expression on her face 77 252 i/ 








A L V I R A 


CHAPTER I. 


KNIGHTS ERRANT. 

TN 1812, St. Augustine contained a few thou- 
sand inhabitants, a dozen saloons, a few 
billiard halls, a small theatre, and a score of 
small shops, subsisting mainly on the patronage 
of the Spanish soldiers at Fort San Marco. 

Each home was surrounded by a garden, with 
orange and fig trees, with grapevines and flow- 
ers; and there were some picturesque old resi- 
dences, which, together with the great Fort San 
Marco, the bay and the ocean, the cypress and 
magnolia groves, the tangled thickets of live 
oaks, and the untrained jungle in the background 
presented an interesting landscape. 

Mr. Conde, an old Huguenot left over from 
the time of the British occupation, had been en- 
1 


2 


ALV1RA. 


gaged in the business of furnishing supplies to 
the producers of cotton, turpentine, rosin and 
indigo around St. Augustine, and, though re- 
tired, kept a furnished office in his residence to 
make the impression that he was still a busy 
man. 

Florence, his daughter, about thirteen years 
of age, had a graceful figure, a charming face, 
luxuriant hair, dark blue eyes, and a fair com- 
plexion, and was bright, vivacious and affection- 
ate. 

Besides these two and Mrs. Conde, who con- 
stituted the family proper, there was another 
inmate of their home, Henry Woodson, the or- 
phan son of an American soldier of the Revolu- 
tion, who had settled in Fernandina and had 
maintained business relations with Mr. Conde 
for many years. Harry was a little past six- 
teen years of age and had been living with the 
Condes since the death of his parents. 

Though he admitted that he was indebted to 
Mr. Conde for benefits, he could not agree with 
him about the choice of an occupation. Mr. 
Conde thought he ought to go to Philadelphia to 
study law, but Woodson expressed the wish to. 
get to work at once, and proposed going to New 


KNIGHTS ERRANT. 


3 


Orleans, to which. Mr. Conde objected, thinking 
that St. Augustine offered as much chance as 
New Orleans for the display of business enter- 
prise. 

Mrs. Conde who was a distant relative of 
Harry ’s, and had inherited the liberal views 
of her Anglo-American ancestors, tried to in- 
duce her husband to let the hoy go, and to give 
him a letter of recommendation to his friend, 
Mr. Augustus St. Cyn, who was the cashier of 
a hank in New Orleans and reported to he a 
thorough business man, but her endeavors were 
in vain. 

Harry’s determination had not been very much 
affected by the failure of Mrs. Conde ’s exertions 
in his behalf; but when he bade adieu to Flor- 
ence, and she gave vent to her feelings in tears, 
he began to picture to himself a future that 
might be rather dreary. 

As he sat alone on the deck of the brig on 
which he had embarked, a young man about 
twenty-four years of age approached him in a 
patronizing manner, and took a seat beside him. 

“Well,” said he, by way of introduction, 
“which way are you hound!” 

“For New Orleans,” said Harry. 


4 


AL I IRA. 


“What are you going to do there f” 

“ Get into some kind of business, if I can.” 

“I think you’ll have a hard time trying to do 
that. The whole town is full of refugees from 
the West Indies, driven out by the British con- 
quest, some with a few dollars, but most of them 
destitute and increasing the number of paupers 
— I’ve been there, but I’m going to pack my 
traps as soon as I get through with a little busi- 
ness I have in the neighborhood of Pensacola, 
and then I’m going to Natchez — that’s the place 
for a live young man!” 

‘ ‘ Are there any special advantages there ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It ’s an Indian reservation.” 

“Do you expect to trade with the Indians?” 
“Yes. There’s a big lot of money distributed 
among them and there’s a good chance for a 
smart fellow to get some of it.” 

4 ‘ Where is your home ? ’ ’ 

“I have been away from home many years 
and am possibly forgotten by all that were once 
near to me. I am from a country where the eld- 
est son, after the death of the father, comes into 
possession of the whole estate, and is in the sit- 
uation to rule the whole family with despotic 


KNIGHTS ERRANT. 


power. That’s one of the reasons why I am 
here. ’ ’ 

6 6 Are you from England ? ’ ’ 

u No. My father was horn and raised in 
Wales, hut he entered the service in Spain and 
my mother was Spanish.” 

At this juncture the old skipper approached 
them. 

“So you’re leaving the old place?” said he to 
Harry. 

“Yes, I want to try my luck somewhere else.” 

“I’ll tell you what place I’d go to — I’d go to 
Mobile.” 

‘ ‘ Mobile ! In preference to New Orleans ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir.” 

‘ 4 1 haven ’t heard much of Mobile. ’ ’ 

“The Americans haven’t been in possession 
three months, and they’ve made a flourishing 
town of it already. It’ll be the natural outlet 
for everything that is produced in the western 
states, within the next twenty years; and it’s 
a live place, where they welcome every one 
that comes along, who wants to work.” 

Woodson often sat for hours alone on the 
deck while the others played cards, smoked, 
and drank whiskey, in the cabin. After passing 


b 


ALVIRA. 


the Dry Tortugas, the wide waste of water was 
but seldom relieved by the spectacle of a sail, 
in the distance, and never once by the sight of 
land, until the ninth day; and this gave Wood- 
son ample time to experience the unpleasant 
sensations which rose at the thought of his being 
bound for some indefinite point, with very doubt- 
ful prospects before him. The remarks of the 
stranger and the skipper concerning the respect- 
ive merits of the rising towns in the new ter- 
ritories did not fail to have some effect on him, 
and the subsequent impression of uncertainty 
had shaken his purpose of going to New Or- 
leans. 

He had just seen the first faint indication of* 
land, one day, when the young man came on 
deck, and, as usual, took a seat by his side. 

“Ah,” said he, as he turned his face in the 
direction of Woodson’s gaze, “I see we’re ap- 
proaching land. That’s Santa Rosa Island, I 
think, and it won’t be long before we get to 
Pensacola. ’ ’ 

“You’re well informed about the country 
here,” said Woodson. 

‘ 4 0, yes. I ’ve been around here before. ’ ’ 


KNIGHTS ERRANT. 


7 


“You’ve seen a good deal of the world, I sup- 
poser’ 

“I’ve been around in Spain, in France and 
Switzerland; and I went to Italy, Greece, and 
Turkey, besides traveling around in the States. 
My eldest brother was on intimate terms with 
an English nobleman, and he gave me a chance 
as a mere boy, to satisfy my love of adventure 
under much better circumstances than I now en- 
joy.” 

“And how did you get ’wav over here after 
that?” 

“I didn’t expect to come here; but I got into 
a quarrel after my return to Spain, and hav- 
ing the misfortune to wound my antagonist, I 
knew I wouldn’t be safe from the persecutions 
of his relatives, and crossed the ocean.” 

“Did he die?” 

“I don’t know. I never heard from home 
since. ’ ’ 

“How long have you been away?” 

“About three years.” 

“Have you no longing to go back.” 

“I have a constant longing, but, in the first 
place, I never had the means to go back, and be- 
sides that, there is always the thought of being 


8 


ALVJRA 


charged with murder, to deter me; and so I go 
on, nursing the dreary thoughts and fancies of 
an exile/ ’ 

While Woodson was yet listening to the dis- 
course of the erratic stranger, he observed that 
they were approaching Pensacola and prepar- 
ing to land; and at this point the young man 
took leave of them, and in due time the brig 
landed at Mobile, where Woodson was offered 
a situation as clerk in a store and concluded to 
accept it. 


CHAPTER II. 


A HECATOMB. 

TTARRY liad been at Mobile about a year, 
when President Madison proclaimed that 
there was no hope of an accommodation with 
Great Britain, and issued a declaration of war. 
But Mobile was far from the seat of war, and 
nothing of much interest transpired in that re- 
gion, until, in the second year of the war, it was 
rumored that the Indians of the South were be- 
ing gathered to strike a blow, and the debates of 
the customers at the store, where Harry was em- 
ployed, began to be very animated. The opin- 
ions were divided as to the probability of a gen- 
eral Indian rising, and a number of the cus- 
tomers were debating this subject on the even- 
ing of August 31st, 1813. 

“I know,” said one of the men, at last, with 
decision, “that Major Beasley has no fear of 
any serious trouble. He hasn’t the slightest 
doubt of the impregnability of our fortified 
9 


10 


ALVIRA. 


places against the Indian forces, while the In- 
dians, in case of a conflict, would have barely 
anything to sustain them in the field, and, in case 
of a defeat, would have no alternative but death 
on the battlefield or starvation in the wilder- 
ness.’ ’ 

There was a momentary silence during which 
they all seemed absorbed in the contemplation 
of this view of the situation. Some of the win- 
dows were open to afford relief from the heat 
of an August night in a semi-tropical climate. 
Usually the few streets of the town at that time 
were so quiet that the rising waters of the tide 
could be heard as they advanced on the flat 
shores ; but one by one the men now raised their 
heads to listen, as the unusual noise of numerous 
voices was heard, and grew louder. 

Suddenly the front door was flung open, and 
a man, pale and out of breath, entered. 

‘ ‘ Did you hear the news ! 9 9 

“What news?” asked the proprietor of the 
store. 

“Every man, woman and child at Fort Mims 
has been massacred ! ’ ’ 

“What!” shouted the customers, all rising in 
alarm. 


A HECATOMB. 


11 


“The roads are full of refugees !” continued 
the messenger, “and there’s no knowing what 
will happen next. ’ ’ 

He was soon surrounded by the customers 
and an anxious throng, that had followed him 
into the store. 

“Do you know the particulars?” asked a 
young stranger, dressed in black, who had eager- 
ly approached him. But before he could get an 
answer, their attention was attracted by another 
man who entered at the front door, followed by 
another throng. 

“There!” said the messenger, pointing to the 
newcomer, “is one of the men that escaped.” 

The store was soon crowded, and the young 
stranger in black, who seemed most anxious to 
hear the news, endeavored, in vain, to approach 
the last comer. The proprietor locked the front 
door to prevent more people from crowding in ; 
and the refugee, having been offered a chair, 
was surrounded by the throng. 

But he seemed for a while unable to speak, 
and looked about him, as if he could not quite 
realize the situation. 

The storekeeper managed to work his way to 
him, and asked whether he had news from Fort 


12 


ALVIRA. 


Mims, to which he first only answered with a 
nod. 

“I was there, ’ ’ said he, after a moment, “but 
I wasn’t present during the massacre. I only 
know that it took place, because I saw the ruins 
and the mass of dead bodies.” 

He lowered his head and hid his face in his 
hands, as if overcome by the recollection of wliat 
he had seen. The crowd was also visibly af- 
fected, and remained hushed and cpiiet for some 
time. At last the young stranger in black ap- 
proached the refugee, and, stooping down, en- 
gaged in a conversation with him in a low tone. 

The manner of this young man had particu- 
larly attracted the attention of Woodson, and 
he tried to catch the purport of this conversa- 
tion; but it was impossible for him to under- 
stand what was said, and the young man at last 
walked to the front door, and requested the one 
in charge to let him out. 

Woodson had his curiosity strongly excited, 
thinking there must be some mystery connected 
with this conversation, which was in some way 
involved in the tragedy of Fort Mims ; and hav- 
ing lost sight of the young man, he made inquir- 
ies on the following day, but failed to get any 


A HECATOMB. 


13 


information except that he must have departed, 
as he had not been seen again at the place where 
he had been quartered. 

The whole country, from Georgia to Louisi- 
ana, from the Gulf of Mexico to Kentucky, was 
filled with a cry of horror at the report of the 
massacre, and everyone seemed paralyzed. At 
every settlement and every post, the people ex- 
pected they would be the next victims of the tri- 
umphant savages. There was only one figure 
that loomed high and formidably out of the 
gloom hanging over the frontier settlements, to 
give some assurance to the people ; and, strange 
to say, it was that of a man who, until then, 
had been unknown to military fame, but whose 
word was sufficient immediately to raise an 
army to pursue the Indians. His name was An- 
drew Jackson. 

This man’s tremendous will-power restored 
the fortunes of war. In a few months the entire 
Indian force of the Southwest was crushed. 

But another, greater task, next confronted 
Jackson. The entry of the allies in Paris had 
ended the most tremendous contest ever waged 
on earth, in which millions had been engaged 
under command of the most experienced gen- 


14 


ALVIRA. 


erals for half a generation. The forces of 
Great Britain had been divided between the war 
in the United States and the great struggle in 
Europe, while her treasury had been drawn upon 
to subsidize the whole European continent in its 
wars against Napoleon; and now all this force of 
men and treasure was to be directed against the 
Gulf States. And very soon a report came that 
a British force had seized Pensacola, and that 
Mobile would be the next point of attack. But 
at the same time came the news that this hero 
of the Southwest was on his way to Mobile, de- 
termined to drive the British out of Pensacola, 
and to confront them wherever they would at- 
tempt to make a landing ; and it was but shortly 
afterwards when he and his forces arrived at 
Mobile. Woodson at once made up his mind 
to offer his services to the gallant Jackson, and 
was given a position as sergeant in a troop that 
was organized at Mobile. 

A few days later General Jackson received 
a report from Major Lawrence, in command of 
Fort Bowyer at the entrance of Mobile Bay, 
stating that a large force of British and Indians 
had been seen within live miles of the fort ; and, 
on the following day, the Major reported four 


cl HECATOMB . 


15 


British vessels of war in sight, anchoring about 
six miles from Mobile Point, and a large body 
of troops camping near the fort; and he re- 
quested reinforcements. 

Woodson received orders to accompany the 
messenger on his way back, to get further par- 
ticulars; and on the following day a captain 
with hundred men was ordered to proceed in a 
sloop to the fort to reinforce Major Lawrence. 

Toward evening of the day when the captain 
with his company had sailed down the bay, a 
dull sound, as of an explosion, was heard, and a 
shock, as of an earthquake, was felt; and Jack- 
son was in the most agonizing uncertainty the 
remainder of the day and most of the night, un- 
til Captain Foster returned, in liis sloop, and 
reported the destruction of the fort with all that 
was in it. 

For a while it seemed as though all were 
lost; but after a moment of thought, Jackson 
expressed his determination to retake Mobile 
Point, though he must sacrifice the remainder of 
his force. Orders were immediately issued to 
muster the troops and everything was life and 
bustle, when, in the midst of these preparations, 
a few hours after the arrival of the captain, a 


16 


ALV1RA. 


messenger was seen approaching from the south. 

The messenger proceeded to the headquarters 
of Jackson, and being conducted to the Gen- 
eral (who was surrounded by a number of his 
officers), greeted him with a smile, and delivered 
a dispatch. 

The next moment the General had grasped the 
messenger’s hand and shook it warmly. 

“What’s your name!” said he, still shaking 
the young man’s hand, while an expression was 
on his face far different from that which had 
darkened it all morning. 

“Woodson,” was the answer. 

The Captain, who was also present, had ad- 
vanced in the meantime, and stood aside with 
his face turned down, evidently crushed by the 
impression this scene had made on him. 

“Come here, Captain!” said the General, now 
turning to him. 

The Captain advanced with bowed head. 

“By God!” exclaimed the General, “I was 
prompted just now to have you shot for coward- 
ice, but the good news this young man has 
brought is so overwhelming that it redeems, to 
some extent, that which was no doubt an egre- 
gious blunder on your part.” Then turning to 


A HECATOMB. 


17 


Woodson, lie added, “He reported to me that 
the fort, with everyone in it had been blown up. 
I shall give you a chance to do something to 
correct your blunder,” continued he, again ad- 
dressing Foster; “but remember that I shall 
have my eye on you — Woodson,” continued he, 
again turning to our hero, “I want you to re- 
turn to Major Lawrence, as soon as you have 
rested and refreshed yourself, and to bring him 
the assurance of my profound regard. I shall 
recommend him and every officer who partici- 
pated in this action, for immediate promotion. 
And in acknowledgement of your services, and 
to supplement the good fortune by which you 
were chosen to bring such tidings, I will confer 
on you the rank of lieutenant, pending confirma- 
tion by the War Department.” 

Woodson bowed to acknowledge this kind dis- 
tinction, and expressed his thanks in a few ap- 
propriate words. 

“Was it the flagship that was destroyed?” 
said the General, again addressing him. 

“Yes, sir, and I think very few of her men 
escaped. The second ship was so badly crippled 
that she could barely manage to get out of 


IS 


ALV1RA. 


range, and with the others hoisted sail and de- 
parted. 9 9 

“ What did their land forces do during all 
this time?” 

“They had been harassing ns from the land 
side, and made several attempts to enter the 
fort, which were only with difficulty frustrated ; 
but shortly before the explosion on the ship oc- 
curred, and when we expected that they might 
soon succeed, they disappeared.” 

“The Captain, I suppose, saw the burning 
ship and mistook it for the fort?” 

“I presume so. The ship was no doubt hid 
den behind the walls of the fort, and he saw 
nothing but the walls of the fort, the fire, and 
the explosion, and concluded it was in the fort. ’ ’ 

“What did you say our loss was?” 

“Ten men killed and twenty wounded.” 

“And their land forces, what became of 
them ? 1 9 

“They disappeared, and we neither saw nor 
heard anything of them on our way up.” 

If W r oodson had been vain, he might have 
had his chances in life considerably damaged by 
the rapidity with which fortunate circumstances 
had enabled him to advance in the favor of the 


A HECATOMB. 


19 


man who had won such laurels with his 4 1 ragged 
militia. ” lie won some recognition again in 
the fight at Pensacola; and in the latter clays of 
November he was proceeding in the train of Gen- 
eral Jackson’s staff toward New Orleans, which 
was threatened with invasion by a large force, 
composed of the elite of England’s navy and 
army. 

At the head of this cavalcade was General 
Jackson, looking sallow and careworn, but de- 
termined. Among the officers was one, tall and 
handsome, with a fair, smooth countenance, 
dressed in a close-fitting suit, which set off his 
well-shaped figure to advantage. He was the 
same young man who had been so deeply in- 
terested in the report of the massacre at Fort 
Mims, when received at Mobile. 

“I would not worry about that,” said Wood- 
son to him; “I suppose he will be satisfied to 
drop the matter after the experience he has had 
with you.” 

“I hope so, too, but I am inclined to think 
that his vindictive nature and his mortification 
at his defeat may prompt him to plot against me 
again. ’ ’ 

“What is his name, and where is he from?” 


20 


ALV1RA . 


‘ ‘ Beardslow. He came from Natchez. ’ ’ 

‘‘The description might answer for the man 
I met on my trip to Mobile. He was going to 
Natchez. What was the origin of his quarrel 
with you?” 

“He was one of the lieutenants of volunteers 
who were in accord with the men in their mutin- 
ous conduct at Fort Strothers; and when, in 
consequence of my agreeing with Caiotain Gor- 
don to stay at the fort, I advanced in Jackson’s 
favor, he charged that I had calumniated him, 
and sent me a challenge. The whole affair was 
not creditable to him, and when he had recovered 
from his wound, he was, at his request, trans- 
ferred to the fort at Baton Rouge; and he may 
figure in the campaign around New Orleans.” 

It is a historical fact that General Jackson had been deserted in the 
midst of the Indian country by his entire army, when upon his stirring 
appeal to the men, Captain Gordon stepped out and expressed his deter- 
mination to stay with the General, 


CHAPTER III. 


BEFORE THE BATTLE. 


EW ORLEANS had been having an era of 



great prosperity, and the populace felt 
highly elated, until the report of the contemplat- 
ed invasion by the British forces fell like a thun- 
derbolt among them. But suddenly, again, on 
December 2d, everything was changed by the ar- 
rival of Jackson with his staff. The General in- 
formed the citizens that he expected three thous- 
and Tennessee and Kentucky riflemen and a 
force of regulars, and their spirits were at once 
revived. 

The young men of Jackson’s staff were in- 
vited to attend a masquerade near Baton Rouge 
on the following Monday, and Charles Victor, 
the comrade with whom Woodson had conversed 
on the road, and Woodson, among others, accept- 
ed the invitation. 

Victor seemed to have obtained considerable 
information concerning the affairs of the Rod- 


21 


22 


ALVIRA. 


rigue family, at whose residence the masquerade 
was to take place, and he mentioned that M. 
Rodrigue had only lived on his plantation about 
a year, having prior to that lived in Baltimore, 
where he had been connected with various profit- 
able speculative enterprises. He had brought 
with him a young man from Baltimore, who was 
to be one of the main figures at the masquerade. 
The latter was connected with a family of rank 
in France, which had been exiled by the proscrip- 
tive laws and had settled in Baltimore. He had 
studied law and come to the West with M. Rod- 
rigue to seek his fortune, and was a guest of 
this gentleman at the time. Victor had also 
learned that Lieutenant Beardslow, his antagon- 
ist, was the friend of M. Froard, the young man 
from Baltimore, and that these two had mainly 
been instrumental in arranging the masquerade. 

On the day before the masquerade, Lieutenant 
Beardslow happened to see a beautiful young 
girl sitting on the veranda of a cottage in Baton 
Rouge, who had just arrived from one of the 
New Orleans seminaries. She was reputed to 
be the daughter of a Scotchman, who had made 
a fortune trading with the Indians. 

The young girl was enjoying the hospitality 


BEFORE TllE BATTLE . 


23 


of the owner of the cottage, to whom she had 
been intrusted by her father, because the inva- 
sion of New Orleans was soon expected. She 
was endowed with personal charms, and, at the 
time when the Lieutenant saw her, had on a 
dark dress of rich material that set off her grace- 
ful figure to perfection. Her face, with clear 
cut features and fair complexion, had a kind, 
sensitive expression. 

She had withdrawn from the veranda when 
she saw the officer advancing, and when after- 
wards her host introduced her as the daughter 
of a wealthy trader at St. Marks, the Lieutenant 
took occasion to pay the young lady compli- 
ments, and finally asked her whether she would 
honor him with her company to the masquerade. 

She had not given much attention to any of 
liis remarks, and was about to withdraw, when 
this request was made; but her host expressed 
the opinion that the proposition ought to be 
flattering to her, and withdrew to give the Lieu- 
tenant a chance to plead his cause. 

The girl stood blushing deeply, with her eyes 
turned down. She was evidently embarrassed, 
and in answer to the Lieutenant ’s repeated ques- 
tion, whether he could have the pleasure of es- 


corting her, she said something about being un- 
prepared for the honor which he wished to con- 
fer upon her. 

In response to this he declared that the great- 
est pleasure and honor would result to him, and 
that she could feel assured of a very hearty wel- 
come. But while she stood listening to his fur- 
ther arguments, with an expression on her face 
which did not seem auspicious for his plans, the 
door was suddenly opened, and a tall, handsome 
young man, in uniform, approached to the cen- 
tre of the room. 

The Lieutenant did not seem devoid of self- 
assurance before, hut he was disconcerted, now, 
and stepped hack a pace, staring at the intruder 
as if he were some supernatural apparition. 

The officer was of a commanding presence and 
there was something in his sudden appearance 
and in his manner that might at least partly ex- 
plain the strong impression he made on the Lieu- 
tenant. 

After they had stood opposed to each other 
for a few moments without either one speaking 
a word, the tension was relieved by the appear- 
ance of their host who had, at some distance, 
followed the last visitor. 


BEFORE THE BATTLE. 


25 


“Well, gentlemen !” said he, looking from one 
to the other in his astonishment at the tableau 
that presented itself to his view, “may I offer 
to introduce you?” 

“This is Lieutenant Victor,” said the young 
girl, in response to this suggestion, “with whom 
I became acquainted in New Orleans.” 

“I am extremely happy to make your ac- 
quaintance,” said the host, bowing profoundly 
to the new visitor; “and this is Lieutenant 
Beardslow,” continued he, pointing with his 
thumb toward the latter, while he inclined his 
head toward Victor. 

‘ 4 1 think we are slightly acquainted with each 
other,” said Beardslow, who had by this time 
recovered some of his assurance. 

“I should be pleased to know,” said Victor, 
directing his remark both to Beardslow and their 
host, 4 4 what Mr. Beardslow’s purpose was in 
coming here; or rather, what his object was in 
seeking this interview with Miss Benfrow?” 

4 4 Mr. Beardslow,” said the host, 4 4 is a friend 
of mine, and as Mr. Renfrow accepted the offer 
of my hospitality for his daughter, and I am, 
therefore, her temporary guardian, and Mr. 
Beardslow wished to make her acquaintance, I 


26 


ALVIRA. 


introduced them to each other. And as Mr. 
Beardslow contemplated inviting her to an en- 
tertainment at the residence of a gentleman of 
the highest respectability, I gave Miss Alvira the 
advice to accept this invitation ; and I suppose it 
only remains to be seen whether she will avail 
herself of this kind offer or not, that is all.” 

“I do not know,” said Alvira, with dignity, 
‘ ‘ the particulars of the agreement that my father 
may have had with M. Yalde, concerning my 
stay here ; but I do know that he only yielded to 
the force of necessity, in the present unhappy 
state of affairs, when he sent me here, and I 
am certain that he could not have thought it 
necessary for me to ask advice of M. Yalde, on 
an occasion of this kind. There could be no 
thought of my accompanying this gentleman, a 
perfect stranger, to this fancy-dress ball . ’ 9 

M. Yalde here hastened to assure her that he 
had no intention, whatever, of trying to influence 
her in the matter; and Beardslow declared that 
there was a misapprehension on the part of M. 
Yalde. 

“I was very favorably impressed by Miss 
Alvira,” said he, “and would have considered 
it a great honor if I had been accepted as her 


BEFORE TEE BATTLE . 


27 


escort; but I wish it distinctly understood that 
I would not have thought of making such a re- 
quest if Master Valde had not suggested that 
Miss Renfrow might possibly wish to attend the 
masquerade. And, of course, if Mr. Victor is 
the friend of Miss Renfrow, and himself wishes 
to escort her to the masquerade, there can be 
no idea of my persisting in my request.” 

It was Victor’s turn now to feel somewhat em- 
barrassed; for, by the adroit manner in which 
his antagonist had warded off the imputation of 
being intrusive, the others might be led to as- 
cribe some special purpose to him in asserting 
such authority as the protector of the young 
lady, and he might seem to stand in relations to 
her, which he possibly had no intention of as- 
suming. And when Beardslow immediately fol- 
lowed up his declaration by taking his leave, and 
M. Valde also retired, leaving him and Alvira 
alone, he felt that there was some necessity of 
formally explaining the object of his own visit, 
lie only now perceived that he had spoken with- 
out due consideration. 

“You do not,” said he, “have a high opinion 
of masquerades?” 

She turned up her eyes to him, as if to ob- 


28 


ALV1RA. 


serve Ms expression, wliile a blush suffused lier 
countenance; and then turning down her eyes 
again, she said in a low tone, “I do not know 
exactly what they are, but I thought it would not 
be right for me to go there with a stranger. ’ ’ 

“Would you go with me?” 

“I would go, if you think it proper for me to 
do so,” answered she, looking up into his eyes 
with a confiding glance. 

1 ‘ I came with the intention of inviting you to. 
go,” said he, and at that moment he could not 
but inwardly admit that he had acted upon the 
impulse of a somewhat adventurous spirit, and 
that it would be wrong if he did not speak plain- 
ly upon the subject to her. “But,” continued 
he, “since you put the question so directly 
before me, I must say that I am not quite certain 
whether it would be right to go to this masque- 
rade. There may be evil connected with such 
entertainments ; and in this case I almost feel as 
though there would be, that is, ’ ’ continued he, in 
an apologetic tone, ‘ ‘ since this man, Beardslow, 
will, in all probability be there. He has been 
frustrated in his design and no doubt nourishes 
feelings of resentment against me, and may seek 
to renew a quarrel in which we were once before 


BEFORE THE BATTLE . 


29 


entangled. But, ’ ’ added lie, reassuringly, ‘ ‘ there 
can he no harm in it for those who are only in- 
tent on amusing themselves. I thought of in- 
viting you to see what may possibly be a very 
interesting spectacle, which we might witness in 
mask, as the rule requires, without any risk of 
having unpleasant experiences. ’ ’ 

Hereupon they began to debate the matter 
with regard to the necessary arrangements that 
would have to be made, and finally agreed that 
they might go in ordinary dress, merely using 
a mask to disguise the face; and Victor took his 
leave shortly afterwards, promising to call for 
her on the afternoon of the following day (the 
day of the masquerade), with the understanding 
that they would ride to M. Rodrigue’s in a car- 
riage, which he would engage for the purpose at 
Baton Rouge. 

The arrangements for the masquerade had 
been completed. The Packet-boat had landed 
quite a number of guests from New Orleans, 
and among them Woodson, who had been en- 
joying the semi-tropical scenery along the ma- 
jestic river from the deck of the boat. 

Besides Alvira there were a number of other 
pupils from the seminaries of New Orleans, who 


30 


ALVIRA. 


had been sent to Baton Rouge to escape the dan- 
gers of the siege, but deemed the honor of being 
invited to the masquerade at the residence of the 
distinguished Frenchman, sufficient inducement 
to risk the dangers that might result from a 
disregard of the church ordinances. 

The weather was very favorable, being tem- 
perate and bright, the house was well adapted, 
being large and having many commodious rooms 
which had been converted into salons by opening 
the large folding doors that divided them; and 
several bands of musicians had been brought 
from New Orleans to furnish the music. 

When Woodson entered among the gay mask- 
ers, he felt like a stranger w T ho had suddenly 
been thrust into a promiscuous crowd of people, 
of habits entirely different from his own, and 
communicating with each other by mysterious 
signs ; for it was only seldom that an intelligible 
word was heard, while the gesticulations were 
mostly obscure to him. Besides a motley crowd 
of noblemen, ladies, shepherds, flower-girls, 
knights, Turks, clowns, etc., there were numer- 
ous masks representing demons and witches, a 
survival, it is said, of the times when the mask 
was assumed as a protection against witchcraft, 


BEFORE TEE BATTLE. 


31 


and the wearers considered themselves cham- 
pions of the deities; and it seemed as though 
many, in the present case, had construed this 
ancient superstition into a license to worship at 
the shrine of Bacchus. 

Woodson was not given leisure further to con- 
template the strange scene before him, for he 
had noticed a slender young girl, dressed in a 
beautiful costume, such as he imagined a Sylph 
might wear, and with a mask representing a girl- 
ish face, who seemed to be rather retiring, but 
had evidently become somewhat interested in 
him, as she had been observing him for some 
time. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE MASQUERADE. 


XXfOODSON felt encouraged by the Sylph’s 
** show of interest to approach her with a 
slight bow, which she acknowledged by an al- 
most imperceptible inclination of the head. 

4 4 1 am a stranger here, ’ 9 said he, in an apolo- 
getic tone, 4 4 and presuming that you may also 
be, I take the liberty of introducing myself, in 
the hope that we may afford each other some 
slight diversion while these people are engaged 
in their frolics.” 

44 Yes, I am a stranger said she, 4 4 but I think 
I shall not lack diversion on that account. I 
have just parted with one gentleman who in- 
troduced himself, and he was so entertaining 
that if I continue to have the same fortune, I 
may expect to get some interesting, if not very 
pleasant experience . 9 9 

4 4 Was he too obtrusive?” 

44 I do not know what to call it. He told me 



“YES 


AM A STRANGER HERE” 

t 



THE MASQUERADE. 


33 


of all the ladies lie liad ever known. One had 
beautiful eyes, a second a pretty mouth, another 
a fine complexion, and so forth ; hut he expressed 
his sorrow that he had never found any one who 
possessed all these agreeable features combined, 
and said he would consider it a special favor if 
I would let him see whether I excelled the others 
in that respect.’ ’ 

“I cannot consider that very reprehensible, 
as I myself imagine that there must be extraor- 
dinary charms concealed behind your mask, and 
might have made such a request myself but for 
this warning.” 

‘ 4 1 might spoil your illusion, if the atonement 
for my participation in this masquerade would 
not require too great a penance, should it be- 
come known to my friends.” 

“What was your purpose, then, in coming?” 

“I may fairly claim that I came under pro- 
test. I was consigned to the care of some sim- 
ple people in Baton Rouge by my father to es- 
cape the dreadful fate which he thinks is in 
store for the inhabitants of New Orleans; and 
the daughter of these people being invited to 
the masquerade, I was requested to go with 
her. But, ’ ’ continued she, with a tone of solemn- 


34 


ALV1RA. 


ity, “in order to feel somewliat less guilty on 
account of this compromise with vanity, I must 
avoid all intercourse that might encourage con- 
duct unworthy of people who are threatened 
with a great calamity, and I must maintain a 
certain reserve, and a strict incognito. ” 

“I should consider it a great misfortune if I 
had to part with one, in whom I have already 
found so much to admire, without any prospect 
of meeting her again. And if there is no chance 
of getting better acquainted now, I should at 
least wish to exchange some slight token with 
you by which we might recognize each other if 
fate wills that we shall meet again. I assume 
that you are fair ; but I should be sorry to miss 
the chance of getting some insight into your 
other characteristics. ’ ’ 

“It would not be prudent for us to enter into 
any obligation of that kind, for it could only 
serve to recall the memory of a frivolous occa- 
sion. We knew nothing of each other until this 
moment; in a few minutes we may be parted, 
and it is likely that we shall never have occasion 
to think of each other again ; for how could you, 
in the din of battle, in the heat of fever, in a 
prison, or under suffering and privation, find 


THE MASQUERADE. 


35 


leisure to think of one you had only seen for a 
few moments at a masquerade? Or, after achiev- 
ing triumphs and receiving ovations from dis- 
tinguished men and women, how could you re- 
member the few words exchanged with one 
whose image can recur to you only as a faint 
shadow? Or how could you care, hereafter, to be 
reminded that you had exchanged pledges with 
me under the protestation that you would cherish 
my memory, if in the meantime you should win 
the heart of another V 9 
“The horrors of war certainly can never make 
me forgetful of the first moment in my life in 
which I had a gleam of real happiness ; and your 
bright vision of glory for our handful of raw 
recruits will just as certainly never he realized 
in our struggle with the overwhelming forces* of 
the British veterans. But whatever luck may be- 
tide us, I feel confident that this moment would 
prove to be the most eventful one of all my life, 
if you would but accept this slight token of re- 
membrance from me and wear it, so that I may 
recognize you if we should meet again. If the 
very worst should happen, and New Orleans 
falls into the hands of the enemy, I hope I shall 
not be among the few who survive it ; but if we 


triumph, and I should survive, I shall certainly 
try to find you again, to learn something more 
of the woman who condescended to afford me 
the happiest moments of my life so far ; ’ ’ and so 
saying, he drew a ring from his finger, which 
he offered her. 

“And what if you should never find me?” 

“I suppose there will always be war some- 
where for a poor wretch to waste his life until 
he gets his quietus.” 

“And what, then, would be my fate, if you 
should get your ‘ quietus/ as you call it, and I 
should never know it and would consider myself 
bound by this pledge never to encourage the at- 
tentions of any other young man who might wish 
to cultivate my acquaintance, while I was waiting 
for you to make good your pledge?” 

“Oh, I did not expect you to accept it as an 
engagement ring. I shall consider myself bound 
to seek you if I live, but I would leave you free 
to dispose of your affections in the meantime, 
if you choose to do 50.” 

“Very well. If you will present your token 
to me on that condition, I will accept it and give 
you one in exchange; but I must exact the sol- 
emn promise that if we are triumphant, and you 


THE MASQUERADE. 


37 


survive the struggle for the possession of New 
Orleans, you shall try to redeem your pledge 
within a month after the decisive battle. I shall 
return to New Orleans as soon as I can conven- 
iently do so, for I think there cannot be more 
danger there, though even the war should yet be 
raging around it, than in this place; but you 
must depend on chance, or destiny, to bring us 
together again, for you may not be admitted to 
my home, either in Baton Bouge, or New Or- 
leans, and I shall not often be flitting around out- 
side. And if we have not met and recognized 
each other by that time, it must be agreed that 
we may put aside these tokens as of no import- 
ance and both be at liberty to forget each other 
as soon as possible. ’ ’ 

“Oh, then the whole proceeding would have 
but little significance. ’ ’ 

“What else do you expect to result from such 
an agreement at such a meeting, where all the 
rules that should govern our conduct are set 
aside? Do you think, for instance, that one ac- 
cidental meeting between people who may rep- 
resent the farthest extremes in character, could 
ever be accepted as a decree of fate that they 
must forever be bound to look for each other!” 


38 


ALV1RA. 


‘ ‘ 1 think there is no such great difference be- 
tween us ; and we might, with perfect propriety, 
agree definitely upon another meeting, if it is 
possible to decide upon a place.” 

“But we cannot be sure that we are not entire- 
ly incompatible, so long as the most reliable in- 
dication we could have of our characteristics on 
so short an interview, that is the expression of 
the face, is concealed from us; and why should 
we then place any importance at all on this acci- 
dental meeting, and bind ourselves by some in- 
convenient promise ? ’ ’ 

“We are now enabled dispassionately to bear 
eath others’ evidence concerning ourselves, with- 
out being unduly influenced by artful gestures, 
which might mislead us, while we can see the 
eye, in which the heart is truly reflected; and I 
think I have been, by this means, enabled to 
pass judgment impartially on you, and believe 
that you are as nearly perfect as mortal can 
be.” 

“Such expressions can but make me the more 
insistent on my conditions. They betray that 
any slight defect in me would be sufficient so to 
shock your aesthetic sense, that the spell, which 
now seems to bind you, would be immediately 


THE MASQUERADE. 


39 


broken if you saw me as I really am. I can ac- 
cept your token only on my conditions, as befit- 
ting such an adventurous proposition. ” 

‘ ‘ But you will tell me at least where I may ex- 
pect to find you?” 

“You might expect to find me at Baton Rouge 
or in the Fauburg Ste. Marie, for either one of 
these is the place where I shall most probably 
be.” 

“Cannot you give me some more definite di- 
rections ? ’ 9 

“No.” 

“These are hard conditions, but to prove my 
devotion and faith, I will accept them. And I 
will, moreover, bind myself to continue my 
search for you for two years at least, before I 
put away your ring. ’ ’ 

So saying, he gave her his ring and received 
one in return, which would barely go on the 
smallest finger of his left hand, and possibly this 
interchange might have been but the prelude to 
a further passage at flirtation, had they not at 
that moment been startled by a gunshot report, 
coming from one of the other apartments, which 
was followed, first, by an ominous silence, and 
then by the loud speaking of a number of men. 


40 


ALV1RA. 


While hurrying to the place where all the 
people were gathering, Woodson was separated 
from his comj)anion by the crowd surrounding 
the excited men, and though he immediately 
turned into the direction where he thought he 
saw her disappear, and continued his search 
among the female maskers who all remained, 
while the men mostly followed the combatants 
into the open air, he did not succeed in catching 
sight of her again. 

While Woodson had been thus engaged, some 
of the men, in a separate room, had discarded 
their masks, and were seated at tables drinking 
wine, among them Beardslow. He had possibly 
in the pleasure of the wine table and the con- 
viviality with his companions, forgotten the 
beautiful daughter of the wealthy Scotchman, 
until, with a determination to enjoy the dancing, 
they proceeded to one of the salons where the 
couples were swaying back and forth in the maze 
of the dance, and where Beardslow suddenly con- 
fronted a lady, who had just quit dancing. Be- 
ing warm she took off her mask, and revealed 
the features of Alvira. Her face was animated, 
and her beautiful eyes sparkled with pleasure. 

She was in company of a gentleman, who wore 


THE MASQUERADE . 


41 


the uniform of a lieutenant, and a half mask. 
Beardslow approached her, and, without paying 
any attention to her partner, requested to have 
the pleasure of her company for the next dance. 

The Lieutenant took oft his mask, disclosing 
the features of Charles Victor. He stepped be- 
tween Alvira and Beardslow, and motioning to 
a chair at a distance, requested her to take a 
seat. 

Beardslow turned to follow Alvira, and Vic- 
tor stepped in front of him to bar his way, warn- 
ing him not to molest the lady; but Beardslow 
tried to evade him. 

Victor again stepped in front of him and laid 
his hand on his arm : 

“Excuse me, sir,” said he, “but I must re- 
quest you to desist from further attention to 
this lady.” 

“Take your hands off!” cried Beardslow 
threateningly, attempting to disengage himself. 

“Will you desist from your purpose?” 

‘ ‘ Let go ! ” cried Beardslow fiercely ; and the 
next instant he had wrenched himself loose with 
a violent jerk. 

Some of his companions tried to lead Beards- 
low away; but the crowd surrounded the two 


42 AL V lit A . 


men. There was excited and angry talking, fol- 
lowed by a pushing and wrestling ; during which 
the party surged through the wide door to the 
terrace outside, and suddenly the report of a 
shot was heard, whereupon the crowd scattered, 
and several of the men seized upon Beardslow, 
and tried to secure a pistol which he was flour- 
ishing. 


CHAPTER V. 


CONFESSION S, 


OODSON had been detained by his en- 



deavor to follow the “Sylph,” with a 
hope of discovering who she was, and when he 
had to give up his search, and thought of inquir- 
ing into the particulars of the shooting affair, he 
was informed that Victor had been wounded in 
the affray and conveyed in a small sail boat 
down the river to New Orleans; while the only 
chance for him and the other guests to return 
was by means of a packet that was expected on 
the following day. And upon his return to the 
city, he sought Victor at the hospital. 

“This restraint,” said Victor after an ex- 
change of greetings in answer to a question of 
Woodson, “is rendered more irksome by the 
hopelessness of my condition in general. Up to 
a short time ago, I expected to have a brilliant 
career, and now I have the prospect of being a 
cripple and an outcast.” 


44 


ALV1RA. 


As Woodson could not readily find words, 
such as lie thought might he appropriate in re- 
sponse to this remark, he waited for the patient 
to continue; hut at last, as Victor also remained 
silent, he thought it necessary to give expression 
to his sympathy, and asked what change had 
taken place in his prospects. 

“Oh,” said Victor, “it’s the old story of the 
disagreement of father and son. I told you that 
we had a quarrel before the time of my going 
to the war ; but he had about forgiven that, when 
unfortunately he heard of this affair, and, con- 
cluding that I was lost to all sense of decency 
and shame, as he said, gave vent to his ire by 
refusing to receive me into his house, and threat- 
ening to disown me, if I would not dismiss all 
thoughts of Miss Renfrow, whom he denounced 
as the sole cause of that sensational occurrence. ’ ’ 

Woodson was perplexed as to what he should 
further say; he thought, moreover, that the pa- 
tient might be unduly exerting himself by speak- 
ing so much, and expressing this opinion, he 
reached for his hat. 

“You must not think of these things now,” 
continued he. “You are too weak to undergo 
this strain, and I had better call some other day. 


CONFESSIONS. 


45 


when you are feeling* better.’ ’ 

“Oh, no. 'Don’t leave me so soon. I can 
think of nothing but my troubles when I am 
alone. ’ ’ 

“ Can’t you find something in your love to 
sustain hope?” said Woodson, prompted by 
sympathy to ascertain his feeling toward Al- 
vira. 

“How can I? I feel as though I had done the 
poor girl a wrong in dragging her into such 
scenes as those at Rodrigue’s — in suffering her 
to come into contact with such men as Reards- 
low. I cannot protect her against him, and it is 
beyond my power to fathom her heart while I 
lie here fretting and worrying over my own con- 
dition. He has declared that he would pursue 
her persistently with his attentions, and while 
I am unable to stir, he will not scruple to do 
whatever he can to annoy me.” 

4 ‘ I can understand that you may take a gloomy 
view of the whole matter in your present condi- 
tion, but I think, that, so far as Beardslow is 
concerned, you need have no fear of him. Proba- 
bly you have not heard, yet, that his commission 
has been canceled?” 

“Has he been dismissed?” 


46 


ALVIRA. 


“Yes. I think it was on account of his attack 

on you at Baton Rouge.” 

“Oh, that at least brings some relief to me. 
The thought of this man has pursued me like an 
evil spirit, until at times I felt as though the 
whole world must be wrong, if such as he could 
be entitled to a place in it. He seemed to be in 
a condition to cause me trouble forever.” 

‘ ‘ That seems only natural since you are rivals 
for the favor of this girl. Rivalry, even in the 
pursuit of ordinary objects in life, is apt to call 
forth the most unreasonable prejudices and 
fears. The best cure for your evil that I can 
think of, is for you to try to win the prize by un- 
alterable devotion to her, in the consciousness 
that you are more worthy of her love. But tell 
me, what kind of man is this Beardslow? I 
have never seen him, only always heard of him. 
From your account, I am now almost convinced 
that he is identical with the man who was a 
passenger on the brig that brought me to Mobile. 
How does he look?” 

“He’s a man about your size.” 

“This man was larger than I, but I suppose 
I have grown considerably in the last years. ’ ’ 
“He has fairly regular features, a smooth 


CONFESSIONS. 


47 


face, and brown hair.” 

4 * That might all agree ; hut, while he first made 
an unfavorable impression on me, I could not 
but feel some compassion for him, when I 
learned how he had been knocked about in the 
world. ’ ’ 

“I never heard him give an account of his 
past life; but I should think he was inclined to 
exaggerate the wrongs he had suffered and to 
conceal his own faults.” 

4 ‘ That may be ; but we all have our faults . 1 ’ 

“Yes ; and I admit that I have mine. You re- 
member some of the particulars of the sad affair 
at Fort Mims?” 

“Yes.” 

“I told you of the negro boy whom my father 
had sold to a man in Alabama to punish him 
for a theft of which he was suspected. But 1 
did not tell you that this was shortly before my 
mother died, and that at her request my father 
sent me to Fort Mims where the master had 
taken refuge with his family and slaves, and 
that I was empowered to cancel the contract and 
bring the boy home. I had, myself joined in the 
request of my mother; but as the boy was ac- 
cused of inventing a lie, about seeing Indians, to 


48 


ALV1RA. 


shirk work, I returned to Mobile to report and 
await further instructions; and you cannot 
know of how much more importance it was to me 
that evening at the store, than any information 
concerning the other inmates of Fort Mims, to 
learn whether this boy had been saved. And 
I have not been home since.’ ’ 

Victor paused, and Woodson made a futile ef- 
fort to think of some appropriate response 
which he might make to this confession. He was 
strangely affected by the tone in which Victor 
had uttered the last few words, and it seemed 
as though the fate of this negro boy was almost 
of as much importance to him now, as it had 
been to Victor. He looked anxiously into the 
patient’s face in expectation of what might fur 
ther be revealed concerning this, when present- 
ly a surgeon entered, who requested him to 
withdraw, as he wished to dress Victor’s wound. 


CHAPTER VI. 


STERN REALITY. 


LIVER RENFRO W liad lived among the 



Indians since he was a young man eighteen 
years of age. His home was in Florida, near St. 
Mark, though most of his property was in Mis- 
sissippi Territory and Georgia. To this home 
Alvira had returned, after graduating at the 
seminary in New Orleans. But everything, here, 
seemed strange to her. And as she looked about 
her, and met everywhere the signs of an inferior 
race, with only slight reminiscences of her 
mother who had been far superior to her sur- 
roundings, she felt an uncomfortable depression 
at the idea of settling down here. 

It was said that her mother had been the wife 
of a French refugee, who, having shared the 
misfortunes of the emigrants in the revolution, 
came to Florida and was killed by the Indians 
in one of their raids, and that the young widow 
had been carried far off into the dense wilder- 
ness of the Indian country, where she was kept 
for almost two years, until she finally consented 


50 


ALV1RA. 


to become the wife of the young* Scotch trader. 
The mother had lavished all her love on Alvira 
with a fervor that could only be explained by 
her isolated condition among people, with whom 
she could have but little sympathy; and Alvira ’s 
childhood was brightened by the influence of this 
intense motherly affection. 

When Alvira had arrived at the age when she 
began to make inquiries, her mother mostly 
avoided giving her definite information concern 
ing her early life, so that the girl was not clearly 
conscious of any particular difference between 
her mother and her step-father in social rank 
and character, except that she divined something 
of the superior intelligence and the higher spirit- 
ual cast of her mother. 

She was a mere child, when her mother died 
and she was sent to the seminary in New Or- 
leans. It had been duly heralded some time 
prior to her arrival, that the daughter of a fron- 
tier man, who associated almost exclusively with 
Indians, had been accepted as a pupil ; and there 
seemed to be a disposition to protest against this 
intrusion upon the exclusiveness of the aristo- 
cratic class to which this school was supposed to 
be dedicated. But among the pupils were the 


STERN REALITY. 


51 


daughters of the Spanish governor of St. Mark, 
who had associated with her at their home and 
continued in the same relations with her, and 
she was considered thereby qualified, the more 
so as her step-father furnished her the most 
ample pecuniary means requisite to claim equal 
rank with her class-mates in that respect. 

There had been occasional fetes and excur- 
sions for the scholars, when very young male 
relatives of some of the pupils were invited, and 
Alvira had never failed to have a partner at 
these entertainments. But, most important of 
all, she had, on one occasion, while walking in 
the garden surrounding the seminary, met Lieu- 
tenant Victor, who had subsequently called on 
her at Baton Rouge ; and in view of this it may 
be imagined that, as the time approached when 
she had to return to the wilds of Florida, she 
felt something like regret. 

But she consoled herself with the thought that 
she w T ould at least have the daughters of the 
Spanish governor at St. Mark to associate with, 
who had also returned from New Orleans. And 
when she went into the forest surrounding her 
home, this labyrinth of sylvan wonders affected 
her more agreeably. Here, at least, some of the 


ALVIRA. 


pleasant impressions of her school life and of 
former times, might be revived, which the plain 
facts that surrounded her in her home were for- 
ever dispelling. 

But there were terrors, also, to be encountered 
in this sylvan retreat. On one occasion, when 
she had sought the grave of her mother, which 
was in a lonely dell, far from her home, and 
while resting there a moment to meditate, she 
heard the chanting of a song. On looking 
through the foliage in the direction of these 
sounds, she caught glimpses of a band of Indians 
proceeding through the woods; and she ap- 
proached closer, under shelter of the foliage, to 
observe the procession. 

It was composed of men and boys. She knew 
that the singing of this song was usually suc- 
ceeded by some act of violence, and she followed 
them under cover of trees and brushwood into a 
large open space, where an excited throng sur- 
rounded a group, consisting of a white prisoner, 
and several Indians who were chaining him to 
a stake surrounded by a pile of wood. She di- 
vined at once that this was to be a terrible act 
of retribution. 

Some men and boys were dragging dry 


STERN REALITY. 


53 


branches and leaves around the pile, and in the 
meantime the others struggled to get a position 
from which to witness the scene that was ex- 
pected. 

There was a vague feeling of horror roused in 
her, as though she, herself, would suffer this tor- 
ture. She made an effort to break through the 
barrier that obstructed her view; and, as the 
men who composed the crowd recognized her, 
she succeeded in penetrating into the inner cir- 
cle. 

The dry branches and leaves had been ignited, 
and the flames began to spread around the pris- 
oner, who moved his head from one side to the 
other, while the flames and smoke began to sur- 
round him. For a moment then, he was quiet, 
but suddenly a cry of agony was heard. Alvira 
sank down on her knees before the chief who was 
directing the men, and who grimly watched the 
proceedings. She had recognized the victim. 
“Oh, spare him!” cried she. 

The chief looked at her for a moment in sur- 
prise. 

“Release him !” repeated she, with an expres- 
sion of agony. 

“Release him!” said the warrior, with a look 


54 


ALV1RA. 


of cold estrangement, “ Release one of the men 
who just sent hundreds of our people to 
death?” 

The men were dragging more fuel to the fire. 
Some were bringing straw to quicken the flames. 
The heat and smoke were making the victim 
writhe. Alvira stood erect, wringing her hands. 
Despair was in her looks. What expression 
could convey an idea of her feelings? Her heart 
was incapable of giving room to anything but 
the overwhelming sensation of horror. She 
shrank from the chief for fear that she should 
hear another word in palliation of this crime. 
The attempt to find an expression for her feel- 
ings failed, and she thought of throwing herself 
between the men and their victim, but her 
strength forsook her. It made her shudder to 
think that human nature was capable of such 
cruelty ; it chilled the very marrow in her bones, 
and made her spirit quail. Once more she tried 
to approach the chief, but she was unable to 
move. She stood rigid, her eyes fixed on va- 
cancy, her lips pale; then a trembling came over 
her, and she would have fallen, if a young man 
who stood near, had not caught her. 


CHAPTER VII. 


ALONE AGAINST A HOST. 

HpHE unfortunate sufferer in the scene which 
Alvira had witnessed, was Victor. Even 
the Chief had been at last touched by her agony, 
and the prisoner had been released from the tor- 
ture to which he had been subjected for a few 
terrible moments. 

After many days and nights of pain, Victor re- 
covered so far that he could rise. But for weeks 
following this, during which he was confined in 
his movements to one room of a house in a 
small yard inclosed in a palisade, he saw no one 
except a half-breed woman, evidently attached 
to the household, who moved about and tended 
to his needs, like a solemn spectre, without ever 
trying to speak a word to him, or taking any 
notice of his endeavors to enter into some com- 
munication with her. 

At last he observed, that a young white man, 
who had called several times at the house to 
bring letters, once also came into the inclosure 
55 


56 


ALV1RA. 


to which he was restricted, and of him he in- 
quired as to the chances for mailing letters. 

He was informed that this might be done 
through means of Hernando, the Spanish trader, 
whom he represented, and who had a contract 
for carrying the mail ; and to this young man he 
intrusted several letters, when he came again, 
and asked him to have the letters transmitted. 

Some time after this, he was disturbed in a 
reverie by hearing a foot-fall on the floor behind 
him, and upon turning around he beheld — Al- 
vira. His first impulse was to advance toward 
her with a joyful greeting, but the grave expres- 
sion on her face as she stood still, with her eyes 
turned down, checked him. 

“I thought,” said she at last, in a low tone, 
“it would be proper for me to advise you of 
some things that have happened here, and which 
may concern you.” 

“Where am I now?” asked he, after a mo- 
ment. 

“This is my father’s house, and I came to tell 
you that there is trouble in view for us, and that 
you may suffer in consequence.” 

‘ ‘ What has happened ? 9 9 

“Two transports of United States troops, 


ALONE AGAINST A HOST. 


57 


with some women and children, have been sur- 
prised on the Appalachicola, and nearly all 
were killed ; and another war will he the conse- 
quence. The Indians have tasted blood, and the 
life of no white man is secure here now. ’ ’ 

‘ Alight your father not be able to protect 
mef }> 

“He is absent, and they are on their way here 
now. They say you are acting the spy, and in- 
tend delivering them into the hands of Jackson, 
and that they have some of your letters to prove 
that this is your purpose. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ They have no such letters from me. I gave 
letters to the clerk of Hernando, to be transmit- 
ted by mail, for my father, for the Colonel of 
my regiment informing him of the cause of my 
absence, and for a friend advising him that I am 
a captive.” 

‘ ‘ That was a mistake. The men have been told 
that you sent off treacherous letters, and in their 
rage they will not believe you . 9 1 

“When will your father return?” 

“I do not know” 

At that moment the sound of voices was heard 
in the distance. 

4 ‘ There they are ! ’ ’ said she. 


58 


ALVIRA. 


For a while the noise was hushed, hut after a 
short time of ominous silence, they heard 
stealthy footsteps on the veranda, the door knob 
was seized and a noiseless effort made to open 
it, after which there was again a period of 
silence, so long, that he hoped the men were gone, 
when, suddenly, there was a crash, and the door 
flew open. 

The figure of an Indian appeared in the open- 
ing. He turned about to speak to those who had 
followed him, and Victor stood measuring the 
strength of the man who would be the first to 
confront him. 

He could not remember having seen the half- 
breed Chief, Francis, and it was a matter of in- 
tense interest to him, whether the man before 
him was or was not the monster, who had given 
vent to his vindictiveness in the most cruel in- 
flictions on men and women. 

The Chief made some effort at self-control, 
as he put his hand in his pocket and took out a 
letter. 

“Will you tell me the meaning of this?” said 
he. 

Victor glanced at the letter. It was one of 
those he had intrusted to the clerk of Hernando, 


ALONE AGAINST A HOST. 


59 


the Indian trader. In this he had informed Colo- 
nel Clinch, who had ordered the reduction of 
Garcon’s fort, that he was an invalid and was 
held prisoner by the Indians. 

“If one of our men,” said the Chief, “in the 
hands of your Commander, had sent such letters 
to us, he would be hung like a dog.” 

“The circumstances required that I should 
send this letter to inform my superior officer of 
the cause of my absence from duty.” 

“You should have spoken to me before send- 
ing it. ’ ’ 

“I thought there was no harm in reporting the 
cause of my absence to my Commander.” 

“It was unfair, while we are being hounded 
to death ! ’ ’ 

The idea that he was at the mercy of this man 
suddenly occurred to him, and that he could not 
escape whatever outrage he might choose to in- 
flict on him; but the thought of being spoken to 
in this manner was so intolerable that he was 
impelled to speak : 

“I know what your purpose is in heaping this 
abuse on me. You think you have me at your 
mercy; but, helpless as I may seem to be, I defy 
you to do your worst ! ’ ’ 


60 


ALVIRA. 


The Chief for a moment stared at him, and 
suddenly his jaws were projected and his ears 
drawn back with an expression such as an en- 
raged tiger might assume, and he made a move- 
ment toward Victor. But whatever his purpose 
may have been, it was checked by Alvira, who 
stepped between them. 

For one moment the Chief seemed diverted 
from his purpose ; but the next instant he thrust 
her aside, and advanced. 

Victor had never before felt so deeply con- 
scious of the oppressive power which tyranny 
can wield — how deeply one may be mortified by 
an intolerable sense of suffering wrong and in- 
sult at the hands of inferiors. But even in the 
presence of the Chief, the sense of his helpless 
condition did not awaken such horrible thoughts 
as those that rushed through his brain when Al- 
vira had, with earnest prayer, induced the Chief 
to withdraw. In the deep silence that followed, 
while he was alone, in the dark room, his imagin- 
ation was excited, by wild flights of fancy, to 
picture to himself the most cruel inflictions that 
he might be exposed to again, if this should be 
the man who had massacred Lieutenant Scott 
and the men and women of his convoy. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PARTING. 

TT was the notorious Francis, that had con- 
fronted Victor, and he it was, also, that had 
directed the Indians in the torture scene. But, 
being softened by the plea of the beautiful girl, 
he was inclined to magnanimity. Alvira had 
appeased him with her tears and entreaties, and 
he forgot his anger, even yielding to her request 
that he should relax the vigilant guard which he 
had kept over the patient. And as the apprehen- 
sions of Victor, concerning his treatment had 
not in any way been verified, he abandoned 
the thought of any immediate attempt to escape. 

Alvira ’s heart also was light, and she was 
animated with a feeling of joy. But she closely 
guarded this feeling. She was now apprehen- 
sive of the effect of this scene on Victor. She 
anxiously watched the impression on him, of all 
that passed. She had some influence over the 
chief, but she could not think of all that had 
61 


62 


ALVIRA. 


passed between him and Victor without a feel- 
ing of anxiety, and she had some dread of what 
the future might bring. 

Victor often meditated over his strange situ- 
ation. The matter of the letter which Francis 
had obtained had not been further mentioned 
by anyone, and, concerning the other letters, Vic- 
tor refrained from saying anything, and heard 
nothing. — Though he at first suspected that they 
had been tampered with, also, and this caused 
him some uneasiness for a while; he reassured 
himself with the thought that the letter to 
Colonel Clinch was the only one that could 
possibly have roused suspicion of any kind, and 
that the others might have been transmitted to 
their destination. But when Chief Francis re- 
turned from another one of his expeditions and 
Victor got some intimation of the departure of 
Jackson from Nashville wfith a large force of 
men, he was astonished to hear that the Chief 
had, on that day, destroyed the warehouses of 
Hernando, the competitor of Alvira’s father, 
and arrested two of his three clerks and gone 
to St. Mark to deliver them to the Spanish gov- 
ernor of the fort. 

But he still had no seeming apprehension that 


THE PARTING. 


63 


any immediate trouble could result for him out 
of a visit to St. Mark ; and it was with buoyant 
spirits that he repaired with Alvira and the two 
daughters of the Spanish Governor to a turret 
over the court of the fortress, which commanded 
a fine view of the inlet on which the fort was 
situated, and there discoursed with them in a 
light vein upon such matters as were of common 
interest to them. 

After they had been so engaged for some 
time the younger of the Governor’s daughters, 
who had changed her position so that her view 
was to the south, observed an armed sloop, with 
her sails set, emerging from behind a promon- 
tory, which had hidden her from view until then. 

As the distance was not great, and the wind 
favorable, the sloop soon approached close 
enough for them to discern that she carried the 
British colors. 

The elder daughter of the Governor had gone 
to bring a telescope, with which she was now 
examining the ship. After satisfying her 
curiosity, she handed the telescope to Victor, who 
availed himself of the offer to scrutinize the 
ship and the few men that were visible, and also 
to discover her name, which latter, however, was 


64 


ALV1RA. 


impossible, as some of the canvas was spread 
over the bow; and thereupon he passed the tele- 
scope to the others. 

The Governor himself now came up with an 
officer of his garrison, and seemed to be con- 
sulting with him about the vessel; and, while 
so engaged, they were approached by one of the 
clerks of the Indian trader, Hernando,, who 
seemed to make some request; and it was not 
long after they had finished this conversation, 
when the ship prepared to cast her anchor about 
a mile from the fort. 

The daughters of the Governor had risen, after 
the clerk had withdrawn, and approached their 
father, with whom they carried on their con- 
versation in Spanish; and shortly afterward 
Victor rose, inviting Alvira to take a walk along 
the bay. 

“ Would you care to go on board V* said he, 
after they had walked some distance toward the 
sloop. 

‘ ‘ Thank you, I think I would rather not. ’ ’ 

He turned to her, and, looking steadily into 
her eyes, said in a low impressive tone, “You 
would not regret it.” 

‘ ‘ That might be, but I have no desire to make 


THE PARTING. 


65 


a spectacle of myself before strangers, and I 
hope I shall have no serious cause for regret 
if I do not” 

“You may seriously regret it if you do not 
follow my advice.’ ’ 

“I do not understand you.” 

“This is a critical moment,” said he, still 
looking steadily into her eyes. 

She returned his gaze for some moments, and 
then spoke in a low tone: “You must express 
yourself more plainly if you wish to make your- 
self understood.” 

‘ ‘ Come with me. — There may be danger if you 
remain here.” 

“Would you have me leave my home — my 
father?” 

“Yes. — You can warn him first, by a few lines, 
that his life is in danger if he stays here, and 
then we can go on board.” 

1 1 In danger ! — from what ? 9 9 

i t There is a storm impending. Let him seek 
shelter at once.” 

“And should I, in such a moment desert him? 
— I could not think of doing that— especially if 
you cannot plainly tell me your reason for this 
advice . 9 9 


66 


ALVIRA. 


“I can say nothing more than to ask yon to 
come with me; or, if you will not do that, to 
return to your home and beg your father to 
keep away from St. Mark, for the present. It is 
impossible for me to say more, as my honor 
might be compromised if I would. ’ * 

“ And is it your firm purpose to go on board 
of this ship?” 

“Yes.” 

“Farewell, then,” said she, suddenly extend- 
ing her hand, while she turned away her face, 
“ if we must part. ’ ’ 

“We must not part, but there may be danger 
for us both, if we stay here.” 

“I believe there may be danger for me here, 
but I believe there may he elsewhere, too, and 
I prefer to meet it where I know the people, 
rather than among strangers. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you believe that to be ruined here would 
be preferable to casting your lot with mine?” 

“I might have greater confidence in you if 
you would not put my faith to such a hard test 
by refusing to give me a reasonable explana- 
tion.” 

“I do not quite understand this objection. I 
myself must not remain here, and I can only 


THE PARTING. 


67 


urgently repeat my advice to warn your father, 
and ask you to follow me. I can never forget 
what I owe you; and it is for that reason that 
I request you to follow me. There is a great 
crisis impending; but I dare not say more. I 
have a Commander who is very exacting, and he 
might punish me severely if it became known 
that I said more, or if I would remain here.” 

“I cannot leave my father alone to the fate 
you predict. — Are you determined to remain 
on this ship ! ’ ’ 

‘‘It is probable that I shall have to. As soon 
as I set foot on her deck, I may not be free to 
do as I please, and it would be dangerous for 
me to try to come back. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then I also might not be free if I should go, 
and I must bid you farewell, if you must go.” 

So saying, she turned about and slowly re- 
traced her steps to the fort, while he proceeded 
to go along the shore, until he was under cover of 
a wood that lined the banks of the inlet, and from 
there continued his course toward the sloop. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A GRAVE MISTAKE. 

TF Victor repented of his resolution to part 
“** with Alvira and desired to return, it was im- 
possible for him to do so. When he had reached 
the ship he was conducted into a small cabin on 
the spar-deck, and there met by the commander 
of the vessel, in undress, who evidently regarded 
him with surprise, if not distrust. 

“Has General Jackson arrived ?” said the 
Captain, after exchanging formal greetings with 
him. 

“No,” replied Victor, in a subdued tone. 

4 4 How came you to be here ? ’ ’ 

“I fell into the hands of the Indians at Gar- 
con’s fort.” 

4 4 Were you released, or did you make your 
escape?” 

“I have not been actually held a prisoner, 
I was slightly wounded, and while the men of my 
detachment saved themselves by flight, I was 
68 


A GRA VE MISTAKE. 


69 


captured; but I was taken care of until I recov- 
ered from the injuries I had received, and after 
that was treated kindly.’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What is your name ! ’ ’ 

“ Charles Victor.” 

‘‘My name is McKeever. I suppose you are 
aware that we are not British?” 

“Yes, sir. I know that the Boadicea is an 
American vessel.” 

“You will understand the necessity of ob- 
serving secrecy as to our object in coming here,” 
continued the Captain, “and I shall require 
your word of honor not to return on shore, or to 
communicate with anybody there, either by word 
or sign. I expect General Jackson today, but 
in the meantime we might be exposed to attacks 
from the Indians if they should learn that we 
are Americans, and must be cautious.” 

On the following day, Francis with one of his 
lieutenants, and Renfrow, came down the bay in 
a canoe and boarded the ship, and shortly after- 
wards the two clerks, whom Francis had arrest- 
ed, but who had obtained permission from the 
Spanish Governor to visit the sloop, also came 
on board to be insured protection against the 
Indians. 


70 


ALVIRA. 


They were all received with apparent cordial- 
ity, and after the exchange of greetings, Francis 
took the Captain aside and addressed him in a 
cautious whisper: 

‘ 4 What are you loaded with f ’ ’ 

“Guns, powder and lead for the Indians,’ ’ 
answered the Captain, in the same cautious tone. 

Francis seemed pleased, and the Captain in- 
vited him, his lieutenant and Renfrow into the 
cabin; hut scarcely was the door closed behind 
them, when a dozen sailors suddenly seized 
the two Indians and Renfrow, and, after a short 
struggle, secured and bound them, after which 
they were informed that they were in the hands 
of General Jackson, who would that day arrive 
with a large force. 

Victor shortly afterward came into the cabin, 
and when Francis had been bound, and saw his 
prisoner, whom he had spared at the request of 
Alvira, he conceived the idea that he had been 
betrayed by him. 

“This is wliat I get for sparing your life,” 
said he, addressing Victor with a tone of re- 
proach. 

“No, sir,” said Victor, who was surprised at 
this speedy realization of what he had expected 


A GRA VE MISTAKE. 


71 


as a result of the Captain’s ruse, “I call on Cap- 
tain McKeever as witness that I did nothing to 
justify this charge ; and I will do anything I can 
for your deliverance . 9 9 

“How came he to raise the British flag, if it 
was not by your advice 1 9 9 

“The British flag was raised by me, without 
suggestion from anybody else,” said the Cap- 
tain; “it was raised to protect us against the 
danger we are exposed to as Americans, here.” 

A short struggle had agitated Victor in the 
time intervening between the appearance of the 
sloop and the moment when he made the propo- 
sition that Alvira should accompany him on 
board. Without his having had the faintest 
hope of such an occurrence, the chance was 
offered to extricate himself from a situation full 
of perplexity and danger. Though overcome 
by the influence of love, he also had times when 
his strange situation appeared to him in the 
light of cold reason. It was not natural that the 
ill-feeling between him and the chief should so 
suddenly pass over, and he could not but have 
a feeling of apprehension so long as he was 
there, while the Indians were engaged in hostili- 
ties against the whites, — a fear, alike, of the 


72 


ALVIRA. 


Indian’s vindictive nature, and the result of his 
own absence from duty. His idea was that Al- 
vira should forsake her father, and he would 
then present her as his wife to the stern parent 
who had commanded him to forget her. He 
might even brave the danger of being rejected 
by his father, and they might prepare a modest 
home for themselves, satisfied in their complete 
devotion to each other. 

While he was on his way to the ship he yet 
deliberated whether he should go on board, but 
as he approached closer and recognized, by the 
name on the cabin, that, his surmise, that it might 
be an American vessel, was verified, the main 
thought that possessed him was to report to the 
Captain with the purpose of returning to duty. 
He would gladly take Alvira along, but he must 
go, whether she would accompany him or not; 
and when he had gone on board, there was no 
more chance to return to her. 

A large American force, the advance guard 
of General Jackson’s army, arrived the same 
day and so effectively had Captain McKeever 
managed affairs, that the warriors of Francis 
had not learned that their leader was a prisoner, 
and had no suspicion that they were in danger ; 


A GRAVE MISTAKE. 


73 


and great was the surprise of both Indians and 
Spaniards when they saw the approach of nearly 
thousand men, who unceremoniously took pos- 
session of the fort, and made prisoners of all the 
Indians that had remained in the neighborhood. 

The Governor of St. Mark and his family 
were kept under surveillance in their quarters, 
as was Alvira ; and when an officer boarded the 
sloop with a detachment of soldiers, they took 
Victor, Renfrow and the two chiefs in charge 
and escorted them as prisoners to the fort, where 
Colonel Mullenboro, the officer in command of 
this force, who had been Victor’s first com- 
mander, had his headquarters. 

“What does this meant” said the Colonel to 
the sergeant who commanded the platoon, when 
Victor was brought before him. 

“This is an officer whom we found on the 
Boadicea. He had, according to his own report, 
to Captain McKeever, been in close communica- 
tion with Francis and Renfrow, and could not 
give a satisfactory explanation how he came to 
be absent from his post.” 

“What explanation did he give?” 

The sergeant proceeded to give the somewhat 
scant account Victor had given to Captain Me- 


74 


ALV1RA. 


Keever, and added that lie had been informed he 
was a deserter and a traitor. 

“Who gave yon this information V 9 
“The clerks of Hernando, the Indian trader, 
whose property was destroyed by Francis. They 
say they intercepted letters from him which 
bear evidence of treacherous designs, and that 
he had been an inmate of Renfrow’s home since 
the affair at Garcon’s fort, and was infatuated 
with his daughter. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Of what nature were the letters ! ’ ’ 

“They were directed to associates, asking in- 
formation of the probable movements of our 
forces, on the pretext that he was held a pris- 
oner, and wanted to return to duty, but which 
it is presumed he wished to obtain for the 
use of the chiefs, whose cause Renfrow has es- 
poused. ’ ’ 

It is but natural to assume that Victor’s ap- 
pearance under these strange circumstances 
would be somewhat of a surprise to Colonel 
Mullenboro. He had been but a private when the 
Colonel first saw him, and the Colonel may have 
been personally as well acquainted with hun- 
dreds of men of equal, or more importance to 
him ; and while he might have heard of Victor ’s 


A GRAVE MISTAKE. 


75 


being missed, he had evidently lost track of him 
in the time intervening, until he now so unex- 
pectedly appeared before him when gradually 
the distinctive features of the young man’s 
career since first they had confronted each other 
at Fort Strothers, up to the time when they had 
parted at New Orleans, recurred to him. 

The Colonel had not as yet given any sign of 
recognition, having only occasionally cast a 
glance at him; and Victor stood pale and quiet, 
his gaze steadily fixed on the floor, without be- 
traying by a single gesture that he was listening 
to the charges against him. He almost seemed 
to be indifferent as to what might become of 
him. The manner in which he had been treated 
since taking refuge on the sloop, seemed to have 
plunged him into a state of dejection. 

At last the Colonel ordered the attendants 
and the other prisoners to withdraw to the ad- 
joining room, and beckoned Victor to come 
nearer. 

“What have you to say in answer to the 
charges brought against you?” asked he. 

“They are false.” 

“I might have sworn to that myself, if the 
evidence in support of them were not so strong. 


76 


ALV1RA. 


Letters of yours have been intercepted which 
compromise you, and, in view of this, your pro- 
longed stay among the Indians, and your past 
career before this strange escapade, appear sus- 
picious, and the insinuations about you, that 
have been made, assume some color of plausibil- 
ity. You formerly spoke rather censoriously of 
our manner in dealing with the Indians — do you 
admit confiding letters to the clerks of the In- 
dian traders at St. Mark?” 

“I confided letters to one of them, but deny 
that they contained any evidence of a treach- 
erous design. ’ ’ 

“Renfrow, the man who is on the most in- 
timate terms with the chiefs, that participated in 
the atrocities against the convoys of Lieutenant 
Scott, is your friend, it would seem.” 

“I have no special reason to consider him my 
friend; but he took care of me when I was 
wounded and sick. ’ ’ 

4 ‘He may have had a special purpose in that; 
or it may be explained by your peculiar relations 
to him. Would you consider it wrong if we 
should execute Renfrow for his participation in 
the torture of Lieutenant Scott?” 

Victor considered for a moment. He might 


A GRAVE MISTAKE. 


77 


offer tlie most emphatic proof, that he himself 
could not possibly sympathize with any one who 
tortured human beings, by explaining what he 
himself had suffered at the hands of the Indians ; 
and he could not positively assert that Renfrow 
had no connection whatever with the Indians 
in their attack on Scott’s convoys, though he 
firmly believed he had none; but thinking him- 
self assured against any serious consequence 
from his temporary restraint, he concluded not 
to offer his own case as a disavowal of any sym- 
pathy with those who might approve of such 
barbarities, lest it should in any way add to in- 
culpate Alvira’s father. 

“I would certainly,” said he at last, “ unless 
he could be convicted of this offense before the 
proper tribunal.” 

His momentary hesitation to answer, and his 
qualified rejoinder, evidently had no very con- 
vincing effect on Colonel Mullenboro. 

“But Renfrow has been an intimate friend of 
Francis and the hostile Indians, has he not?” 
asked the Colonel. 

“I know nothing whatever of that, though of 
course I cannot positively deny it; but, even 
granting that he was, I should think that he has 


78 


ALVIRA. 


the right at least to he treated as a prisoner of 
war, because he has not yet been convicted of 
any direct connection with any outrages. He was 
not taken while engaged in any hostile action, 
and he boarded the Boadicea without any ex- 
pressed purpose that would justify his execu- 
tion, even if his being in company with the In- 
dians may appear suspicious. ’ ’ 

“I cannot but conclude from these expres- 
sions that you are imbued with a strong feeling 
of sympathy for him and possibly, also, for the 
Indians, who are plainly intent on continuing 
their hostilities against our government, and 
who must be strictly dealt with as outlaws and 
punished accordingly, if we are to be assured 
of peace hereafter on our borders. And since 
you first came among us a stranger, surrounded 
by mystery, and refused to give a clear account 
of yourself then, and your record is not entirely 
clear, I cannot at once decide your case, and 
shall have to keep you under surveillance, until 
it can be submitted to General Jackson or a 
court-martial. Meanwhile you shall be at liberty 
to move freely within the limits of our present 
encampment, but must report regularly and 
promptly to the officer in command, at the fort. ’ ’ 


A GRAVE MISTAKE. 


79 


The Colonel had risen, and, approaching the 
door, he beckoned to the lieutenant who was 
in waiting. 

“Mr. Tompkins,” said he, “Mr. Victor is at 
liberty to move about within the limits of this 
camp, with the restrictions that he is to report 
three times daily to the Post-Commander or his 
representative at the fort, where he is to have 
his quarters. Please make the necessary report 
to Major Smith. ’ ’ 

After Victor had been dismissed by the 
Colonel, the latter ordered Renfrow and the two 
clerks brought from the sloop. The two clerks, 
Ayler and Hamel, after stating their names and 
employment and giving an account of the de- 
struction of their employer’s property, were 
promptly and unconditionally released; where- 
upon Renfrow^ escorted by two soldiers, was 
brought up. 

The Colonel consulted a few moments with 
Lieutenant Tompkins; and, in the meantime, 
one new spectator had been added to the au- 
dience, who in silence awaited what was to fol- 
low. It was Alvira, who had requested permis- 
sion to be present at her father’s examination. 

When Renfrow entered, there was a haughty 


80 


ALV1RA. 


expression on his face, bnt when he saw his 
daughter, it vanished. She had advised him to 
withdraw, but he had determined to take the risk 
of boarding the “British” sloop with Francis 
and his lieutenant, who had gone there in the 
hope of finding arms and ammunition for their 
men. 

The charges against Renfrow were, first : 
“Exciting the Indians to war against the United 
States, by writing a letter, to one of the chiefs, 
advising him not to comply with the treaty of 
Fort Jackson, because citizens of the United 
States were infringing on the treaty of Ghent; 
and also advising him to write to the English 
governor of New Providence, who would write 
to his royal highness the Prince Regent, con- 
cerning the violation of their rights . 9 1 Second : 
“Comforting the enemy, supplying them with 
the means of war, informing some of the chiefs 
of the approach of the American forces, and en- 
abling their main force to escape.” Third: 
“Exciting the Indians to murder and destroy 
the two clerks of his rival, Ayler and Hamel, 
and causing their arrest by the Indians, with 
this purpose in view . 9 9 

These charges were read to him, and he was 


A GRAVE MISTAKE. 


81 


asked what he had to say in answer to them. 

He admitted that he had endeavored to give 
the Indians advice, how they might proceed to 
get redress for what they considered violations 
of the treaties between them and the United 
States Government; bnt he denied having fur- 
nished them with ammunition beyond the 
amount stipulated by treaty for their use in 
hunting, or having incited them to do bodily 
harm to the clerks of his competitor, or to make 
the attack on his stores. 

The Colonel made a notation of these denials, 
and ordered the prisoner to quarters in the fort, 
after informing him that the proper authorities 
would determine upon his case on the following 
day; and the Indian chiefs were summarily or- 
dered to confinement in the fort, without an ex- 
amination. 

From the position of Renfrow, who owed his 
prosperity to the Indians, it may have seemed 
a great hardship that he was accused of a capital 
offense because he sympathized with them and 
tried to insure the recognition of their rights 
through the intervention of British officials. But 
the presence of a man, among the Indians, in- 
cautious enough to do this, at a time when they 


82 


ALVIRA. 


were excited by dwelling on and magnifying 
their grievances, real and imaginary, was almost 
enough in itself to precipitate hostilities; and 
after Lieutenant Scott’s convoy had been am- 
bushed, it was natural that the man who had 
boarded McKeever’s sloop with the Indians, 
would be suspected of treacherous designs 
against the United States. 

General Jackson, with the remainder of his 
forces, arrived on the morning following Ren- 
frew’s examination; and the case of the latter, 
together with that of Chief Francis, was sub- 
mitted to the General, who at once convened a 
court-martial, thinking it expedient to settle 
these cases with the utmost dispatch in order 
to be at liberty to pursue the Indian forces that 
had escaped. 

In the case of Chief Francis the decision was 
promptly rendered, and he was condemned to 
death for participation in the attack on Scott’s 
convoy; but the case of Renfrow was to be 
submitted for a revision on the following even- 
ing, before the main body of the troops were to 
start in pursuit of the Indians. 


CHAPTER X. 


A TRAGIC SCENE. 

^/^LVIRA had passed a sleepless night.— After 
tossing about in feverish thoughts until 
long after midnight, she had dozed for a while, 
to be awakened again at early dawn by the sound 
of drums. She rose and dressed herself. A 
dense fog had settled on the landscape when she 
looked out, and she could only indistinctly see 
the outline of a large body of troops in the dis- 
tance, moving eastward. 

She had not seen her father since the Colonel 
had committed him, after which he had been 
closely guarded in a cell, until summoned before 
the court-martial ; and she did not know whether 
he was to be released or whether he was doomed. 
Hope began to rise when she observed that the 
sound of drums was gradually dying out in the 
distance, and the end of the long winding column 
disappeared in the fog, and all was then quiet. 
She reclined on her couch, and sought to get a 
83 


84 


ALVIRA. 


little more rest before the day was fully dawned. 
She had fallen asleep again, and was in the 
midst of a pleasant dream, when she was sud- 
denly awakened by confused sounds, among 
which she could distinguish voices of command, 
followed by the steady tread of soldiers in the 
court. 

She quickly rose, her heart beating loud and 
fast while the thought came that they might be 
leading out her father. She saw a body of 
troops who were passing out through the sally- 
port. They stopped just beyond the drawbridge. 
Two men were separated from the others. They 
were linked together by their hands, and led off 
a short distance. They were placed about a 
yard apart with their linked arms stretched out. 
In the vapory atmosphere it was impossible for 
her to distinguish them. Two files of soldiers 
were posted ten yards from them, and she heard 
a low command. Suddenly there was a flash and 
a report. 

One of the men fell ; the other, though chained 
to his fallen companion and evidently wounded, 
stood erect with his face upturned to the rising 
sun. The rays of the sun had dispelled the fog, 
and she could distinguish that it was her father, 


A TRAGIC SCENE. 


85 


who yet awaited his doom. The next moment 
she heard the low command again, and, imme- 
diately afterwards, the report of the firearms. 

She was prompted to retire from the window, 
but seemed as if paralyzed, and when at last she 
tried to rise from her seat she staggered and 
sank down again on the chair. With her face 
buried in her arms she remained motionless 
while confused thoughts crowded on her mind. 
The terrible scene was yet before her. It seemed 
to have such power over her that she could not 
tear herself away from the last glimpse of him 
as they were separating his corpse from the 
other and preparing to bury the two. 

“What can I do now! Where shall I go!” 
were her thoughts, and with them was connected 
another that made the prospect seem more 
gloomy; “it is impossible that a favorite of the 
man who condemned him and had him shot upon 
such insufficient charges can be sincere in his 
attention to his daughter. I have been blinded 
by conceit. ’ 9 And then came the mournful ques- 
tion, “What can I live for now! — Why should 
I live under conditions that would make exist- 
ence a torture ! ’ ’ 

With the energy of despair she suddenly rose. 


86 


ALVIRA. 


— Was it a creation of her fancy ? — There he 
stood! — There seemed to be an expression of 
anxiety and sympathy on his pale face. But she 
did not want even such expression from him now. 
She stood still, looking on the floor and wringing 
her hands. 

At last she looked up again, but it was with a 
lowering glance; and when he advanced towards 
her, she stepped back. She could not utter the 
harsh sentence that had risen to her tongue; 
but she could not, either, say anything else to 
him, and turned away her face. 

‘ ‘ Alvira ! ’ ’ said Victor, in a low tone. 

She made no response. He stepped up to her, 
and putting his hand on her arm, endeavored 
to lead her to the chair from which she had risen. 

“Oh, leave me!” said she; “It was a mistake 
to imagine that you could be my friend.” 

“This is not a moment for reproaches,” said 
he, in a low tone. 

She stood immovable, with her face hidden 
in her hands, and when she looked up, it had a 
stern expression: “What,” said she, was your 
purpose in going on that ship?” 

“To get conveyance to the American lines.” 

“Did you make any effort to save his life?” 



IT WAS A MISTAKE TO IMAGINE YOU COULD BE MY FRIEND 








A TBAGIG SCENE. 


87 


“I thought he was in danger and therefore 
warned you, but did not imagine the blow would 
be so hard and come so suddenly ; and I did not 
have much chance to exert any influence in his 
favor, being myself accused of complicity with 
him and the Indians ; but I did plead for him. ? ’ 

“Did you know it was an American ship be- 
fore you went on board ?” 

4 4 1 suspected that the British flag was used as 
a disguise; but I was only convinced when I 
went on board.” 

4 4 Why did you withhold this from me!” 

4 4 It would have been improper for me, as an 
officer of the United States Army, to betray this 
secret ; but I warned you. ’ 9 

4 4 Did you think our relations so strained that, 
in a matter of such importance, you could not 
venture to express yourself in plain language 
to me? You used no doubtful terms when you 
spoke to me at New Orleans and at Baton 
Rouge. There was no such reserve in your 
language when you learned how you had been 
rescued from torture . 9 9 

44 I have done nothing to deserve this cen- 
sure.” 

44 I had no idea that such a deception had been 


88 


ALVIRA. 


practiced. My father knew that Jackson was on 
the way. Had he known that this was an Ameri- 
can ship, he would have withdrawn. — How was 
it possible for me to understand your warning 
while we supposed that you were taking refuge 
on a British ship? You must have known that 
I did not understand you, and I can only con- 
clude that you were anxious to secure your own 
retreat, regardless of what might become of us. 
It was folly for me to think that you should con- 
sider me worthy of a serious thought. — But go, ’ ’ 
said she, checking herself, i 1 and leave me to my 
sorrow. Save yourself and leave me to my fate. 
It is not right that I should judge you ; there is 
a power above that will do that. ’ ’ 

He was overwhelmed by this excess of grief 
and anger. He felt that there was some excuse 
for her excited feelings, and stood with bowed 
head, while he sought for suitable words to 
pacify her. 

“You might have saved him,” continued she 
in a low sorrowful tone. — “If you had told me 
all, I could have persuaded him to withdraw. — 
If you had tried, before that, you might have 
convinced him of his mistake. It was wrong if 
you dared not speak to him plainly — if you 


A TRAGIC SCENE. 


89 


dared not tell him that it was himself, all man- 
kind, and God, that he would wrong in stirring 
up the Indians against a power that would cer- 
tainly crush them.” — 

At that moment a hell rang. It was a signal 
for him to report to the officer of the guard; 
and, however unpleasant it may have been to 
part in this manner, he had to take his leave. 

“Do not judge me while you are borne down 
by sorrow and despair or before you see me 
again,’ ’ were his parting words. But they were 
not soon to see each other again. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A METAMOEPHOSIS. 

XI/'OODSON had sometimes thought of the 
* * young lady with whom he had exchanged 
rings at the masquerade. He had upbraided 
himself for not taking more determined steps 
at once, on the night of the masquerade, to in- 
quire about her, so that he could get some fur- 
ther clue and might get one more interview with 
her before he returned to New Orleans. He had 
endeavored to picture to himself the ideal of a 
girlish face that might fit the graceful figure of 
this pleasant apparition which had so suddenly 
appeared and then so inexplicably vanished in 
the excitement and confusion attending the quar- 
rel between Beardslow and Victor, of which 
he had not learned the particulars, until Mr. 
Rodrigue had returned after conveying the 
90 


A METAMORPHOSIS. 


91 


wounded man to Baton Rouge, from where he 
was to he transferred to New Orleans. 

Woodson had eagerly scanned each lady, on 
the morning when the guests from Baton Rouge 
and New Orleans were departing from Rod- 
rigue’s, to discover, if possible, the graceful, 
slender, figure which had so charmed him ; but in 
vain. And before the decisive battle he had not 
obtained leave to go to Baton Rouge, and had 
no time to skirmish around in the city in quest 
of adventure. 

After the British had withdrawn he had often 
promenaded in the Faubourg Ste. Marie, hoping 
that by some fortunate chance, he might get to 
see her, but in vain. The houses, with their 
broad verandas and deep arcades, their orna- 
mental wrought-iron gratings and transoms, and 
their quaint lamps in artistic frames, were cer- 
tainly picturesque ; but the high fences that sur- 
rounded them, made each garden seem like a 
paradise from which he was excluded. And one 
of the most striking effects in this scenery — the 
contrast of bright light and dark shades — was 
the cause of his soon abandoning his search, 
where it was his unpleasant lot to feel the heat 
of the bright sunshine, while he was parading 


92 


ALV1RA. 


the dusty streets in the expectation that the 
Sylpli might see him and divine that he was in 
search of her. 

In short, he had discovered nothing, and he 
felt, as if alone and astray in the world; when, 
at last, his company was unexpectedly detailed 
to garrison Savannah, and later to go with the 
troops that were sent to Amelia Island to quell 
the disturbances caused by the Filibusters under 
Commodore Aury. 

Fortunately, the Filibusters soon surrendered 
Amelia Island to the Americans, who garrisoned 
Fernandina in trust for his Catholic Majesty, 
King Ferdinand of Spain. In the regiment de- 
tailed for this purpose, Woodson’s company was 
included, and he received his commission as 
Captain at the same time, so that it began to 
look as though there might be an agreeable 
change in the monotony of his life. 

A strange feeling came over him when he 
found himself established in his new quarters, 
only fifty miles from his former home. In the 
long time that had intervened since his depart- 
ure, he had often been overwhelmed by a feeling 
of homesickness for the old town with the quiet 
environments and the kind friends whom he had 


A METAMORPHOSIS. 


93 


once been so anxions to desert. Fortunately 
lie was not required to take any part in the 
excursions against the Indians, but, by order of 
General Jackson, who controlled all military 
affairs concerning Florida and knew Woodson 
had friends at St. Augustine, was sent on a mis- 
sion to Governor Coppinger. 

When Woodson arrived at St. Augustine, he 
straightway went to Mr. Conde ’s house and pre- 
sented himself before that gentleman, stating 
his name and offering a hearty greeting, which 
Mr. Conde returned with equal ardor. 

After a long conversation, they directed their 
course to the parlor, and upon arriving there, 
Mr. Conde, with a great deal of ceremony, 
ushered the honored guest into the presence of 
Mrs. Conde and a young lady. 

‘ ‘ I feel highly gratified, ’ ’ said Mr. Conde , 4 ‘ to 
introduce Captain Woodson, a most distin- 
guished representative of the States.’ ’ 

After they had shaken hands for full five min- 
utes, and laughed immoderately, Woodson began 
to inquire about matters in general; but some- 
how he withheld from making any inquiry about 
little Florence, the daughter of the respected 
couple, of whom he had as yet seen and heard 


94 


ALVIRA. 


nothing, though he had begun to conjecture what 
might have become of her. 

“She was a delicate child,” thought he, “with 
supernaturally large, bright eyes, that seemed 
to indicate an intellect disproportionate to her 
slight frame. — Perhaps she is dead!” — In this 
speculation he was interrupted by Mrs. Conde, 
who presented the other lady to him : 

4 ‘ This is my daughter ! ’ ’ 

Woodson could hardly believe that he had 
understood her. — Could this charming young 
woman really he little Florence? This rare 
vision of beauty, so graceful and so perfectly at 
ease. — He felt a glow, an elation of spirits, a 
quiet feeling of happiness and hopefulness, that 
made the world appear in a new light to him. — 
Here was the realization of a perfect being, such 
as had often appeared as a vision to him in his 
dreary hours of trials and dangers, a dutiful 
and loving daughter, reared in the simplicity of 
pure devotion to her duties ! And this being it 
was that had wept when he had departed, that 
had loved him as a brother! Oh, she would 
surely now feel some kind affection for him ! 

But then came a pang. Did he deserve kind- 
ness from her? — She had implored him to write, 


A METAMORPHOSIS. 


95 


and never a line had he sent her. He had, for 
long periods, never thought of her, and probably 
she had not thought of him. 

But, notwithstanding this mental interdict, 
the feeling of happiness returned, and he again 
felt hopeful. — How could he feel otherwise in 
the presence of this charming young girl, who, 
even wdiile she treated him with some formality, 
looked upon him with a kind expression, entirely 
unembarrassed, every motion indicating the 
calm poise which only an habitual unrestraint, 
guided by a clear sense of duty could confer. 

When they were seated, Mrs. Conde addressed 
her daughter: 

“It will be rather strange, won’t it,” said she, 
“when we are annexed to the United States?” 

She could not help being reminded of this 
subject, when she saw the handsome officer of 
the “States” before her, of which she herself 
was a native. 

“Please don’t mention such a thing,” said 
Mr. Conde; “I’m sure it will be a disgrace to 
us if we suffer ourselves to be gobbled up by 
those insatiable Yankees.” 

“I think it will be much more honorable,” 
said Florence, with some warmth, ‘ ‘ than to play 


96 


ALVIRA. 


such a lamentable role as we do now, living in 
terror between the dread of Spanish oppression 
and Indian outrages. If we can call ourselves 
fellow-citizens of the man who won the Battle 
of New Orleans, that alone will be glory enough 
to last us all our life.” 

“Will you please tell me,” said Mr. Conde, 
“what good, for us, all this glorious rumpus has 
been? In place of our own officials we shall, no 
doubt, eventually have Yankees to fill every 
honorable position here ; and I very much doubt 
that they hi be any better than the Spaniards to 
whom we are now accustomed. — They will not 
be over anxious for our welfare. ’ ’ 

“You, yourself, Mr. Conde/ ’ said Woodson, 
“must admit that the proposed cession of this 
territory to the United States, will be a great 
advantage. ’ ’ 

“It may be a great advantage for you 
Yankees ; but why should ive rejoice, if we are to 
be annexed to your United States, and are to 
defray the expenses incurred by you in your 
wars, which were practically waged for our sub- 
jugation? ” 

“The present difficulties arose from the neces- 
sity of protecting the rights of our people 


A METAMORPHOSIS. 


97 


against the encroachments of our enemies. We 
were pounced upon by the English and plotted 
against by the Indians while attacked; and we 
had to defend ourselves as best we could. We 
first had to defeat the British, which we did 
when attacked at New Orleans, and then we had 
to punish the Indians; and last of all we will 
have to get possession of Florida, so as to get 
thorough control of the Indians, which we are 
going to do as much for your benefit as for our 
own. And, so far as I know, it is not intended 
to impose any additional taxes on you in case 
the purchase is effected.” 

“But we shall no doubt have to pay prohibi- 
tive taxes on dramshops, theatres, and billiard- 
halls or the like; and, besides that, the council, 
for which they will probably, in the course of 
time, appoint some of your Yankees, will no 
doubt be given discretionary power to regulate 
the observance of the Sabbath, and we may 
expect to have our places of amusement closed 
on the only day when they have a revenue.” 

“Oh, papa,” said his daughter, “what will 
that amount to, compared to the benefit we shall 
derive from the liberal government of the Amer- 
icans! Consider what you wrote when New Or- 


98 


ALVIRA 


leans was beseiged ; when there w^as danger that 
the British would capture New Orleans; when 
you heard of the panic among the people at the 
first rumors that the British had been victorious. 
Think of the sentiments you expressed when the 
Americans with General Jackson at their head 
had returned thanks in public prayer for their 
victory. — You wrote that you would have gladly 
joined them yourself; and I am sure that you 
would have advised the annexation of Florida to 
the country which produced such men, if it had 
been proposed at that time.” 

At this juncture Mrs. Conde who had been 
made nervous by the vehemence with which her 
husband expressed some of his prejudices 
against the United States, and thought that this 
might bring about a misunderstanding with the 
Captain, took her husband aside. And shortly 
afterwards the colored girls and old Pompey, 
the man of all work, of whom one or the other 
had obtained some intimation that i 1 Harry ’ ’ had 
returned, by listening at the door, rushed in and 
vociferously greeted him, and were repaid for 
their enthusiasm with hearty slaps on the back 
by 4 4 Captain Harry,” who could not contain 
himself for laughter, and, after shaking hands 


A METAMORPHOSIS. 


99 


with each for full ten minutes and inquiring 
about all their experiences since his departure, 
rewarded each with a silver dollar. 

Upon the return of Mr. and Mrs. Conde, 
Woodson was cordially invited to make their 
residence his quarters during his stay in St. 
Augustine, and he gladly accepted the kind 
offer. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A NOVEL ENTERPRISE. 

T>EFORE the negotiations for the cession of 
^ Florida to the United States were openly 
spoken of, a pioneer of American enterprise, 
having recognized the possibilities of St. 
Augustine’s bounding up like New Orleans 
under the American regime, had erected a hotel 
to accommodate travelers; and even before the 
arrival of Woodson, when the trees were yet 
bedecked with their most glorious foliage, and 
the Indian Summer haze had not yet spread its 
veil over the landscape, some people from the 
northernmost points in the United States had 
sought refuge in this favored spot, to escape the 
first chilly blasts of “the saddest days” in the 
higher latitudes. 

The hotel was not far distant from the mole 
which bounds the sea-front and serves as a 
promenade ; and the enterprising host had 
created a bit of artificial landscape around the 
100 


A NOVEL ENTERPRISE. 


101 


hotel in the shape of a cozy garden, in which the 
guests might sit at rustic tables to gaze on the 
ruffled ocean with its glistening waves and watch 
the sail-boats and the schooners or larger ves- 
sels as they passed in the distance. 

“So you are really smitten with the charms 
of this girl, ’ ’ said one of the guests seated in this 
garden, a man apparently about twenty-eight 
years of age, who was well dressed and respect- 
able, to his companion, who was somewhat less 
“in style,” less prepossessing and might be a 
year older. The first wore a black mustache, 
and the other had brown stubble of a week’s 
growth, through which it was rather difficult to 
recognize the whilom Lieutenant Beardslow of 
Baton Rouge, in a somewhat shabby suit. 

“Yes,” said the latter, “I must admit that 
I am interested in her.” 

“You say you’re from Milledgeville ? ” asked 
the first, who was Mr. Froard, the friend of M. 
Rodrigue. 

“Yes; I heard she was at Milledgeville, and 
went there, but she had departed. From there I 
went down the Oconee River to Brunswick, and 
there embarked on a brig in the coasting trade 
between New Orleans and Savannah. I had 


102 


ALVIRA. 


heard that she accepted an invitation to come to 
one of the ports around here, but my informant 
could not give me any precise intelligence, so I 
made some inquiries when we landed here, and 
learned that there was such a girl here.” 

‘ ‘ And you want me to procure a standing for 
you in society, so that you may do homage to 
her ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ I should like to help you ; but for the present 
my power in that respect is somewhat limited. 
I have been only provisionally appointed and 
am not certain of being able to hold my place, 
and though I think the influence of my friends 
will help me to establish myself here, even this 
is not quite certain. But I might use my in- 
fluence to get you appointed as one of the coast 
guards, for instance, in place of a man who was 
charged with insubordination and suspended, 
and in this position you may possibly find time 
and leisure to prosecute your suit. ’ ’ 

“Why should I begin my career here by de- 
grading myself ? ’ 9 

“ I do not think your honor would be impaired 
by accepting such an appointment. Moreover, 
it might only be a matter of a short time when 


A NOVEL ENTERPRISE. 


103 


you would be promoted to a better place. All 
the officials here will probably be dismissed 
when the cession takes place, and there will be 
a good chance for you then. It seems to me that 
you could, as a coast guard, more consistently 
and safely, than in a higher position, woo this 
girl, who evidently is not in a condition to be 
fastidious.” 

“Very well, I will consider your offer. But, 
as to the other matter ; you are acquainted with 
the Noceras, and I want you to give me a few 
lines of introduction to Miss Renfrow. ’ ’ 

“It might be rather improper for me to do 
that. And it would be well, first of all, to deter- 
mine whether you have any reasonable chance of 
winning her favor, and that the game will be 
worth all this trouble.” 

“She has a claim to ten square miles of land, 
and five hundred negroes. ’ ’ 

“What?” 

“Yes, sir! Her father was one of the richest 
men in Florida.” 

“But his property was confiscated, I think 
you said, on account of his complicity with the 
Indians; and probably he didn’t have a good 
title to it.” 


104 


ALVIRA. 


“If I can only succeed in winning her favor, 
I suppose it will not be difficult to prove her 
title to the property. ’ ’ 

“You may be right; her father was not a resi- 
dent of the United States, and he was taken and 
executed on foreign territory. The whole pro- 
ceeding may possibly be considered a violation 
of the international law, for which some one may 
be held responsible. But the other question, as 
to what chances you have to win her favor, is of 
the utmost importance. ’ ’ 

4 4 She seemed kindly disposed when last I met 
her and continued my attentions, which I think 
did not fail to have some effect.” 

4 4 That may have been because she did not 
recognize you. — Do you really love her?” 

44 Ask whether I love life ! What can I hope for 
unless I win her love and with it the means of 
appearing respectable before the world? Even 
you, I perceive, would look at me askant, if I 
should be deprived of that chance to be rein- 
stated in society. — To be rejected even by her ! — 
What could that portend for me? It would 
serve the world as proof of my worthlessness, 
that I was a mutineer, a prodigal, and every- 
thing that’s disreputable; and you could not 


A NOVEL ENTERPRISE. 


105 


have seriously asked that question if you felt as 
certain as I do, that we can win back her prop- 
erty. — Do you imagine that I would not love her 
then? — I may be deficient in some respects, but 
I am not such an ungrateful wretch that I would 
not love her, to whom I would owe so much. I 
would be worse than Victor himself, who owed 
his life to her, and betrayed her father. — No 
sir, when a man has been first taught to appre- 
ciate what is beautiful and noble, and is then 
deprived of even the shadow of a birthright, 
because he was born after his elder brother, and 
is then cast out into the world and disowned 
because he dares to express his opinion of the 
rules that make such distinctions, he would in- 
deed be a fool, if he would not love her who 
becomes the means of restoring him to a station 
in life in which he can move by the side of others 
that possess no more than his own natural 
capacity for living like a human being.” 

“Well, you had better get all the particulars 
you can from her in regard to the property and 
what disposition was made of it, so that I can 
take the preliminary steps to get evidence with 
a view of prosecuting this case, if you find favor 
in her eyes. For the present, however, you had 


106 


A L VI II A . 


better withdraw, and hereafter only communi- 
cate with me when you think it absolutely neces- 
sary. ’ ’ 

“But I shall have to persuade this girl that 
it will be of great advantage to her if she accepts 
my friendship and my services in her cause, and 
I’ll have to talk plausibly to her on the subject 
of her claim to this property, and should like to 
call on you to get some points of law pertaining 
to such cases, and a few technical phrases, 
though I am so certain of the validity of her 
claim that there will no great necessity of en- 
gaging extraordinary legal talent.” 

“Very well. Call this evening.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


RECEPTION AT THE HOTEL. 

N the day after the meeting of Froard and 
Beardslow in the garden, there was an 
entertainment at the hotel, where citizens, vis- 
itors, officials, and their ladies and the officers 
of the Spanish garrison, gathered on the invita- 
tion of the proprietor. 

Woodson was invited and very conscientiously 
tried to make his arrangements so as not to neg- 
lect any of the young ladies present. But, though 
it might be thought quite proper that he gave 
Florence somewhat more of his attention than 
he gave to any of the others, some of the others 
fancied they discovered signs of a strange in- 
fatuation for Florence in the American Cap- 
tain. 

Strange to say, Mrs. Conde did not take this 
view, and hadn’t the faintest idea that Woodson 
was actuated by anything hut the most formal 
courtesy in extending to Florence his invitations 
107 


108 


ALVIRA. 


to dance. And as to Mr. Conde, lie did not 
dream of the possibility that anything like a love 
affair could result from such a thing as dancing 
to the music of fiddles and mandolins. 

Most of the young ladies must have been as 
ignorant as Mr. Conde himself, of the effect of 
dancing on the human heart, for otherwise they 
could not have so willingly engaged with every 
one in this recreation, as they all did, with the 
exception of one, who refrained from dancing 
altogether. — She was the elder sister of Lydia. 

There had been whispering and wonderment 
among the gossips concerning Lydia and Froard, 
also. Fairy-like in her appearance, Lydia, 
though she was sometimes inclined to be capri- 
cious and refractory, was now highly elated. 
The people spoke of her beauty, but also se- 
verely commented on the attention she so readily 
accepted from Mr. Froard, a comparative 
stranger, of whom nobody knew much, as yet. 

It had been Lydia ’s first appearance in public, 
she having only a short time previously returned 
from the seminary in New Orleans, where she 
had been domiciled for the past four years. 

Wherever Lydia had been that evening, there 
also had been Froard. He had engaged her 


RECEPTION AT THE HOTEL. 


109 


attention constantly, not ostentatiously but 
rather quietly, as much as possible away from 
the observation of the other members of the 
family. 

Lydia was not inclined to flirt, as she had 
been too strictly trained for that, and Froard 
had only asked her to dance a few times. He 
might, after all, only have approached her in 
a spirit of friendship, to give her the benefit 
of his experience in the world, in impressive 
admonitions and precepts. But it was evident 
that Isabella, her elder sister, had some reason 
to object to the manner in which these two con- 
ducted themselves. 

There was some formality in this entertain- 
ment, owing to the presence of many of the 
old folks, though the young people, naturally 
revealed something of the ardent nature of their 
southern blood. 

The Spanish dances, with their stately 
measures, afforded the means of expressing the 
inner sensations in graceful movements, and 
these were never marred by awkward or rude 
demeanor. But there were some of the guests, 
who could not get the harmless gratification 
either of being admired in the dance, or enjoying 


110 


ALVIRA. 


it, such as Isabella, the elder sister. And some 
of the dancers, themselves, becoming, at last, 
accustomed to the blaze of light and beauty, 
had ocasion to observe discordant features, as, 
for instance, Woodson, whose attention had been 
attracted by the face of a man, which haunted 
him, and which he tried in vain, to identify with 
the occasion on which he must have seen it 
formerly, and which made an impression not 
quite in accord with the agreeable feelings in- 
spired by the graceful movements in the dance. 

He conceived that there was some incident 
of particular interest to him, connected with this 
face, and his mind was kept more or less busy 
with it, until the time of departure came, when, 
of course, his attention was exclusively occupied 
by Florence on their way home ; but even when 
asleep this face was mingled with the visions 
of his dream. And when he woke on the fol- 
lowing morning, his mind was first engaged 
with pleasant recollections of his association 
with Florence; but suddenly there was a shift- 
ing of the scenes, and one less agreeable was 
presented, in which a room filled with a noisy 
crowd of men was the general setting, and the 
face, about which he had been marvelling the 


RECEPTION AT TEE HOTEL. 


Ill 


past night, was one of the conspicuous objects; 
and he now remembered that it was at Rod- 
rigue’s, shortly before he had been separated 
from the 4 4 Sylph, ’ ’ that he had seen it, and that 
in this crowd Victor’s face had also appeared, 
just as he himself had been impelled to hurry 
after the masked lady, by whom he had been so 
agreeably entertained. 

Strange as this occurrence seemed, it was 
rendered more remarkable, when, shortly after 
he had taken his breakfast, Mrs. Conde handed 
him a letter, from Victor, dated at St. Mark, 
with the following contents : 

4 4 Dear Friend: — Since last I wrote you, I 
have undergone some unpleasant experiences 
which may serve as my excuse both for not 
writing to you sooner, and for writing to you 
now, as they did, to some extent, prevent me 
from fulfilling this duty, which I know I owe 
you on account of your kind visits when I was 
at the Hospital in New Orleans. I had some 
difficulty, also, to get your address, and the 
uncertainty in the transmission of mails seemed 
to make it doubtful whether letters would reach 
you. This may explain why I did not write 
sooner. And as to my reason for writing now, 


112 


ALV1RA. 


it is, because I accidentally read in Nile’s Regis- 
ter that your regiment is quartered at Fernan- 
dina, and, especially, also because I am, once 
again, in need of accommodating friends who 
will listen to my troubles. 

“Assuming that you are not yet informed of 
the fact, I will first mention that I am a prisoner 
here, awaiting the termination of a trial by 
court-martial begun some months ago. This, of 
course, is somewhat of a hardship, though I am 
only bound by my word of honor not to leave 
the immediate environments of this fort, until 
it may be convenient for the commissioners, who 
are to give the final judgment in my case, to 
meet ; and the conditions are made endurable by 
the presence of some other human beings to 
share this solitude with me. But my case has 
now about reached the point where equanimity 
ceases to be a benefit. I have written to my father 
and some other friends concerning my deten- 
tion, and, as I received no response, have often 
felt very despondent, and am very anxious to 
have it determined, at least, whether I am a trai- 
tor, as they claim, or a maniac, as it sometimes 
seems to me; wherefore I would request you to 
come, if you can make it convenient, to help me 


RECEPTION AT THE HOTEL. 


113 


decide this vexatious question and to advise me 
what I can do to terminate this condition of af- 
fairs. So far I have been left to brood over them 
entirely alone, as everybody here seems to regard 
me with distrust. 

“Hoping that you will not look upon this as 
a presumption, and that I may have the pleasure 
of seeing you, I remain, 

“Yours faithfully, 

4 ‘ Charles Victor. ’ ’ 

Woodson observed that the letter had been 
addressed to Fernandina and forwarded from 
there, which had occasioned considerable delay, 
and it did not take long for him to make up his 
mind to go in response to this call. But in 
order to escape the attention that a uniform 
might attract in the wilderness through which 
he had to go, he went in the dress of a civilian. 

It was the latter part of October when he 
started, intending to make the trip in the short- 
est possible time, as he thought the call might 
be very urgent. But it was no slight matter, in 
those days to make a trip from St. Augustine 
to St. Mark. Such a thing as a railroad had 
not yet been thought of. The direct distance 
was about two hundred miles, and by the cir- 


114 


ALVIRA. 


cuitous post-route, at that time, over ferries on 
the St. John and Suwanee Rivers, might have 
taken the hardiest rider four days; and Wood- 
son did manage to get there in that time, but 
just twenty-four hours after Victor had been 
removed to Mobile. 

It seemed to Woodson that there was some- 
thing ominous in this transfer. None of the 
officers whom he consulted were inclined to 
speak much, and the case appeared to be so 
serious that he determined to proceed further 
on his mission of friendship. He succeeded in 
getting the necessary directions to find the pris- 
oner at Mobile, and, as circumstances were 
favorable, three more days, of strenuous riding, 
brought him there ; and he hastened to the bar- 
racks where he had been told Victor was con- 
fined. 

After a few formal preliminaries he was con- 
ducted to a room, where he found Victor engaged 
in gloomy thoughts. 

“How have you been?” said Woodson with 
a cheerful expression as he approached the 
prisoner and heartily shook his hand. 

“0,” said Victor, his face illumined with a 
faint smile: “I have been in worse situations 


RECEPTION AT THE HOTEL . 


115 


than this, and I have seen better times. — But, 
tell me, how did you get here ? I had expected 
you at St. Mark three weeks ago, hut, having 
been disappointed in that, I had given up all 
hope of ever seeing you again.” 

“Your letter was addressed to Fernandina, 
and I have been at St. Augustine for the past 
month; hence the delay in my coming. — When 
I received your letter I immediately departed 
for St. Mark and having there heard that -you 
had been transferred to Mobile, I hurried here 
to see what I could do for you, and in what 
stage your case might be.” 

“I’m afraid it’s in about the last stage.” 

“How am I to understand that?” 

“When I wrote to you I had some hope that 
I might soon be released. Presuming upon the 
fact that so long a time had passed without a 
decision being announced, I hoped that the com- 
mission appointed to examine the evidence had 
found the flaws in it, and was convinced there 
was no case, and was only awaiting a convenient 
time to meet and so report ; and being somewhat 
impatient, as you may well imagine, I wrote to 
you thinking you might do something to facili- 
tate matters. But now I can only conclude that 


116 


ALVIRA. 


they have accepted all the testimony as valid, 
and may determine to proceed with me as they 
did with poor Woods.”* 

“What! You certainly cannot be in such 
danger ? ’ ’ 

“That is the view I first took of it myself; 
but I am afraid that I have neglected the matter 
too long, and that the termination may be very 
serious. There is no evidence against me except 
some of my letters, which were retained and 
opened by a man whom I only saw once in my 
life, but who, for some inexplicable reason, 
must be intent on ruining me, and has made some 
alterations in them.” 

“Did you do anything since the hearing of 
the case, to have the character of this man in- 
vestigated?” 

“I declared that my letters which were intro- 
duced as testimony had been altered, but this 
did not seem to have any effect on the Com- 
mission.” 

“Did you apply to your father for assist- 
ance?” 

“Yes, but I received no answer. — I had no 
idea that Jackson could believe me guilty of 

*The first of the volunteers executed for insubordination under 
Jackson. 


RECEPTION AT TEE HOTEL. 


117 


the things that were charged against me, after 
my emphatic denial of the authenticity of these 
letters; but I suppose I undermined my repu- 
tation by my partiality for Renfrow’s daughter, 
and confirmed the consequent distrust by a few 
incautious remarks. Moreover, I cannot expect 
them to have more faith in my representation 
of the affair than my own father seems to have, 
to whom I have written in vain ; and it may not 
be reasonable to expect him to have faith in what 
I now tell him, after a silence of almost three 
years, or to be more anxious on my account than 
I have been myself. The easiest way for them 
all to settle the case will be to take everything 
for granted that has been alleged against me by 
their competent witnesses, and to let me take 
the consequences.” 

“What is the charge against you, and what 
the nature of the evidence V 1 

“I had been seized by the Indians after the 
explosion at Garcon’s fort, and, after narrowly 
escaping torture, was confined in the house of 
Renfrow, and finding, at last, a good oppor- 
tunity, as I thought, I intrusted several letters 
to one of the clerks of Hernando, a Spanish 
trader who had a contract for carrying the mails, 


118 


ALVIRA. 


as I was told; and when I was held by Jackson 
at St. Mark, this clerk testified, that, on the sus- 
picion that I was conspiring with the Indians, he 
and another clerk had retained these letters, and 
they produced them at the trial in proof of my 
treacherous designs; but the letters had been 
altered. He had opened my letters, and unfor- 
tunately it only required some slight changes 
to give them a suspicious appearance, as I had 
written to some comrades to let me know the 
movements of the forces so as to enable me to 
make my escape and join one or the other de- 
tachment that might be nearest to my place of 
confinement. ’ 9 

“What about the other witness, on whose testi- 
mony the case against you depended?” 

“He was not at the trial, and testified by 
affidavit, made at Pensacola. The sum of his 
testimony was that he, Ayler, and a third clerk 
suspected me of conspiring with the Indians, and 
for that reason retained and opened the letters.” 

“Ho you know him?” 

“No, he was a perfect stranger to me. His 
name is Hamel. He merely corroborated the 
testimony of Ayler, and was one of the clerks 
that Chief Francis had brought to St. Mark as 


RECEPTION AT TEE HOTEL. 


119 


prisoners. I did not think his testimony of much 
importance; though I would demand that he 
and the third clerk, also, should be called 
personally before the tribunal at the new trial 
for which I have made application. ’ ’ 

“And what witnesses did you have?” 

“None.” 

“None at all! How was that?” 

“It seems that I have been forsaken by every- 
body, for I never got an answer to any of my 
appeals.” 

“Why didn’t you write to me sooner?” 

“I had written once before to you, but as I 
had no address I destroyed the letter; and I 
wrote to some other friends, and also to my 
father ; and I am inclined to think now, that all 
these letters were intercepted by this man Ayler, 
as his employer had the contract for carrying 
the mails from St. Mark to the next United 
States station. This was the only means by 
which I could have obtained witnesses, as the 
Indians, who might have testified concerning 
my conduct, during my stay there, were scat- 
tered and would, moreover, have been disquali- 
fied from testifying before the court-martial.” 

“Have you any idea what object there could 


120 


ALV1RA. 


have been to forge the letters and to make these 
insinuations against you?” 

“I cannot imagine what it may have been. 
This Ayler, who testified and who obtained the 
letters from me for transmission, was an utter 
stranger to me, whom I had never seen until 
he came on some pretext into a kind of stockade 
in which I was confined, and where I was en- 
couraged, by some information he gave me, to 
intrust the letters to him, with the understand- 
ing that they were to be transmitted through 
the mails.” 

“ Was he questioned in regard to the letters?” 

4 ‘Yes; he testified that they were the same 
letters delivered to him by me. ’ ’ 

“Couldn’t you offer any evidence to the effect 
that you were held a prisoner by Francis?” 

“I explained the sudden attack on us after 
the explosion at Garcon’s fort, and that I was 
wounded, taken prisoner and carried away by 
the Indians. I referred to some of the men of 
our detachment who escaped, giving their 
names, and asking that their deposition should 
be taken, regarding the sudden attack and what 
they might know concerning my being wounded 
and captured; but they could not positively 


RECEPTION AT THE HOTEL. 


121 


testify that I had been wounded; while one of 
them deposed that he had heard me expressing 
sentiments which indicated some partiality for 
the Indians.” 

4 4 Was the handwriting, added in the letters, 
a good imitation of yours ? ’ 9 

“I think it would not require an expert to 
distinguish the difference between it and my 
writing. ’ ’ 

4 4 That seems to me a very plain case. Your 
father, if appealed to, can certainly verify your 
statement as to the forgery, if the letters are 
submitted to him. Evidently there is some 
roguery at the bottom of this that can be easily 
detected if we diligently search for it. — Have 
you lately written to your father?” 

4 4 Yes, I wrote to him on my arrival here. The 
only thing I really did, that might be construed 
into an attempt to aid and abet the Indians, was 
that on the approach of Captain McKeever’s 
sloop, with the British pennant flying, I advised 
Renfrow’s daughter that she should withdraw 
from St. Mark and should beg her father to keep 
out of the way of the United States forces.” 

4 4 Have you heard from your father?” 

4 4 Not yet.” 


122 


ALVIRA. 


“Could you have received an answer f ” 

“I certainly should have heard from him if 
he intends to give this affair any attention, and 
is at home.” 

“Possibly there is some delay, and I might get 
access to him, and be able to bring the matter 
closer to him by a personal appeal, and induce 
him to have the case thoroughly investigated. 
Where does he live 1 1 1 — 

At that moment they were interrupted by a 
knocking at the door. The attendant announced 
a visitor to see the prisoner, at the same time 
ushering in an elderly gentleman. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A SERIOUS DISCOURSE. 

/ '"T A HE visitor advanced slowly at first, but 
A then quickly approached Victor and ex- 
tended both hands toward him. 

“Father!” exclaimed Victor, suddenly step- 
ping forward to meet him while an expression 
of joy for a moment brightened his face. 

They embraced as they met, and for a few 
moments stood immovable, nothing being heard 
but a faint sigh. At last the father led his son 
to the recess of a window where they conversed 
for some time in low tones. 

Woodson meanwhile retired to the other end 
of the room. 

“Father,” said Victor at last, stepping out 
and approaching Woodson, “allow me to intro- 
duce to you my friend, Captain Woodson, who 
has come from St. Augustine to visit me.” 

The old gentleman extended his hand to 
Woodson. 

“Iam glad to meet you,” said he shaking his 
123 


124 


ALV1RA. 


hand cordially, “ though the occasion is rather 
a sad one. — Yon will excuse my not noticing you 
when I entered,” continued he taking Woodson’s 
arm and stepping aside with him. “It seems,” 
continued he then in a confidential tone, “that 
my son takes a very serious view of the situa- 
tion.” 

‘ ‘ I hope there is no reason for it, and presume 
that your coming will reassure him. ’ 9 

“It is a sad case. Appearances have been 
against him, and the feelings of General Jackson, 
who evidently was kindly disposed toward him 
formerly, seem to have undergone a revulsion, 
which is but natural when we consider all the 
worry he has had in suppressing the Indian 
troubles, and that my son is supposed to sym- 
pathize with these misguided people.” 

“Have you spoken to the General in his be- 
half!” 

‘ 1 No. I have just received the first letter from 
Charles, since three years, after returning from 
a protracted visit to New York, which will ex- 
plain my delay in responding. Unfortunately 
the General seems to believe that Charles is 
guilty, urging, as I am told, that after clinging 
to such a strange infatuation as his for this 


A SERIOUS DISCOURSE . 


125 


girl, lie might naturally, in the circumstances, 
in which he was placed, have become guilty of 
the things charged against him.” 

“What is the state of the case at this mo- 
ment?” 

‘ ‘ The commission, after careful consideration, 
have assented to the points maintained by the 
judge advocate, and now it remains for General 
Jackson to approve their decision and pass sen- 
tence or reject it, as he sees fit. His adjutant 
showed me their communication, when I called 
to see him yesterday, the General having not yet 
arrived from Pensacola, where he has been en- 
gaged for some time.” 

“You are aware of the fact that the letters 
on which he was convicted were tampered 
with?” 

“So Charles has informed me.” 

“It would be proper then, it seems to me, at 
once to get a revision of the testimony.” 

“Certainly, and I think there can be no doubt 
about my succeeding in this, if I can only get 
a plausible explanation from my son regarding 
his protracted stay among the Indians and a 
promise that he will renounce any purpose he 
may have of marrying this Renfrow girl. The 


126 


ALV1RA. 


General, as I am informed, seems to regard the 
affair in connection with her, with much dis- 
trust, because he thinks she might induce him 
to espouse the cause of the Indians, who under 
his leadership might give us much trouble. * ’ 

“Do you think it possible that General Jack- 
son could make this renunciation a condition 
for recommending a revision of the testimony, 
when the main witnesses against your son, evi- 
dently, are unscrupulous men, and considering 
that no other evidence has been submitted but 
the letters, which they claim to have obtained 
from him, but which they opened, and, as your 
son asserts, falsified by slight alterations, in the 
passages where he asked for information con- 
cerning the movements of the troops ? ’ ’ 

“We have no proof as yet that they are un- 
scrupulous men. ’ ’ 

“But your son declares positively that the 
letters which constituted the whole evidence 
against him, have been altered. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ That is only an assertion of the prisoner as 
opposed to the sworn statement of the witnesses, 
who, as I am informed, are reliable business 
men. I believe that General Jackson will require 
some absolute proof of the loyalty of my son, 


A SERIOUS DISCOURSE . 


127 


before he will give credence to his statement 
and again enter into all the details of the case. 
Some things have recently transpired which 
might possibly precipitate another Indian War.” 

“But I do not believe that General Jackson, 
would, on that acount, sentence your son, even 
if he should refuse to renounce Miss Renfrow.” 

“General Jackson is practically beyond the 
reach of any blame for what the outcome of the 
case may be, as the commission, which has af- 
firmed the award of the court-martial, had been 
expressly instructed by him to use all possible 
precaution to avoid a serious error. It was 
warned that its decision would be final, and that 
he would not interfere. The General, as I under- 
stand from his adjutant, says that the question 
which now presents itself to him is whether a 
request for clemency under such conditions, in 
favor of one who might possibly become a 
dangerous factor in the present troubles, can 
outweigh the importance of gaining the whole 
southwestern territory for civilization, instead 
of leaving it under the sway of the Indians.” 

“But what can such arguments weigh with 
you, in face of your son’s declaration of inno- 
cence! Of what value, in your eyes, can be the 


128 


ALVIRA. 


mere fact that the General cautioned the com- 
missioners to he careful, in view of the popular 
sentiment of the country in favor of the utmost 
clemency toward prisoners who are on trial for 
their lives, and the obvious liability of all men 
to err in their judgment? How can any one now 
assume a dictatorial power which should only 
be excused in case of the most extreme urgency, 
when there is immediate prospect of an invasion 
by a powerful enemy V 9 

‘ 4 The Commander in Chief, I think has, even 
now, the moral right to maintain discipline at 
the expense of all individuals who are suspected 
of unloyal conduct; and it is the duty of all to 
insure the detection and punishment of any one 
so suspected while we have such a treacherous 
element to contend with as those on our borders 
and in the territory of the Spaniards. There 
may be no organized force visible, and yet there 
may be thousands ready to pounce on innocent 
women and children at any moment. — Under 
the existing conditions, the Commander in Chief 
has no better means of preventing this, than to 
avail himself of the advantage of the martial 
law; and wherefore then should he set the intri- 
cate machinery of the civil law in motion, to 


A SERIOUS DISCOURSE . 


129 


decide a matter which could so easily be settled 
if my son would be governed by reason and 
would give some assurance, by a deliberate act, 
such as renouncing this girl, that there is no 
danger of his linking his destiny with her 
fathers friends, and supplying them what they 
are most in need of, a powerful intellect. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I cannot but assume that you are unwittingly 
distorting the actual facts involved in these un- 
fortunate troubles; for your view gives me the 
impression of such a stern determination on the 
part of General Jackson, in this very doubtful 
case, as could not be confirmed by any of his 
acts. It suggests something of the force of 
Jackson's character; but I believe the real facts 
will not justify your assertions, that he should 
want to retaliate on these ignorant, misguided 
people, by imitating them in their own ferocity, 
and should want to intimidate our own people, 
who may feel some sympathy for them, by the 
sacrifice of an innocent life." 

“He does not want to sacrifice an innocent 
life. He wants a palpable proof that my son 
will not ally himself with such a dangerous ele- 
ment. — How can you, who know what the hor- 
rors of savage warfare are, who know what ter- 


130 


ALVIRA. 


rible dangers attend the struggles with these 
cunning, stealthy barbarians, fail to see the 
necessity of such an instrument as Jackson for 
our deliverance from the fury of these irrespon- 
sible creatures? — Can you not understand that 
he is actuated by a righteous, burning zeal to 
crush these people, rather than permit them 
longer to devastate the boundaries of our coun- 
try, and that every American must laud the 
effectiveness with which he carries out his 
plans !” 

Woodson was amazed. He had not looked at 
the Indian question from that point of view. He 
got the idea now, from the portent of his own 
remarks which could arouse this old man to 
utter opinions so prejudicial to the safety of 
his own son, that he himself had been unguarded 
in his expressions ; and he concluded to be more 
cautious. He felt certain that the old man could 
not be moved by further argument ; and that it 
would be safer for Victor if he would accept his 
father’s terms as a condition on which to get his 
release. 

“I have been convinced,” said he, “by the 
expressions of your son, that he has no pre- 
dilection for the Indians, and I believe that his 


A SERIOUS DISCOURSE. 


131 


main object now is to have a reconciliation with 
you. I think he may be induced to give a prom- 
ise that he will not marry this girl without your 
consent. ’ ’ 

“If he would do that, I think we might be 
assured of his release/ * 

“If you wish, I will speak to him about it.” 

“Well, see what you can do. I have some 
other business to attend to, not far from here, 
and will call again in an hour ; and we can then 
further deliberate upon the matter. We must 
bear in mind that the acts of the witnesses against 
Charles, though they may have been guilty of a 
breach of trust in retaining and opening the 
letters, cannot impair their character for verac- 
ity, since the motive was to detect a treasonable 
design against the United States, which they 
suspected. And in the absence of evidence of 
any kind to prove a conspiracy or even a motive 
on the part of the witnesses for committing per- 
jury, or altering his letters, his mere assertions 
of innocence, considering the distrust that was 
roused by his general actions, can be of little 
avail. And, above all, his connection with Alvira 
Renfrow, is most liable to rouse suspicion as to 
his loyalty and his future intentions.” 


132 


ALVIRA. 


“I believe your son had not communicated 
with her since they parted at St. Mark, until he 
wrote to her asking for an expression of sym- 
pathy, when he thought he was facing death.” 

“I was led to believe that they were engaged 
in a regular correspondence.” 

“From whom did you get this information!” 

“I received a letter some months ago from a 
man who professed to be concerned about the 
safety of my son, saying that he was infatuated 
with this girl, and was in correspondence with 
her, and that he was especially suspected of 
treacherous designs, on account of this infatua- 
tion.” 

“Who was your informant!” 

“I do not know. The letter was not signed.” 

“Where did it come from!” 

“St. Mark.” 

“Then it was, no doubt, from one of these 
clerks. ’ ’ 

“Well, as I say, speak to him about it; and 
when I return, we can see what may be done.” 


CHAPTER XV. 
a friend's advice. 

* f ^XTELL, ' ' said Victor, after liis father was 
** gone; “what was the result of your 
deliberations ? ' 1 

“Your father says, that the General appre- 
hends more Indian troubles and as a condition 
for doing anything in your case, wants you to 
renounce Miss Renfrow." 

“I fail to see any connection between my re- 
lation to her and the question of my guilt; or 
of either of these with the prospect of Indian 
troubles. ' ' 

“Your father seems to think that you may 
be so infatuated with this girl that you might 
join her father's friends, the Indians, in an in- 
vasion, to avenge his death." 

“And do you think General Jackson cares 
whether I would cling to this girl or not, or, if 
I should, that it would cause him any uneasi- 
ness?" 


133 


134 


ALYIRA. 


“I am not prepared to express a positive 
opinion on that. But it seems to me that if you 
are sure she has renounced you, you might give 
your father such assurance regarding your 
future course, that he could guarantee your loy- 
alty and procure your release, and that it would 
be no worse for her, than if you should persist 
in your loyalty to her. ’ ’ 

“There is some reason in that. I have not 
heard from her since we parted at St. Mark, and 
I was by no means high in her favor then. It 
might, in fact, be an act of supererogation on 
my part to pose as a constant lover. She has 
accused me of ingratitude and of such other 
faults, that it can be no act of self-denial, if I 
renounce her and accept the aid of my father 
who for a little submissiveness promises me a 
release from this suspense, and it would appear 
but reasonable to accept his terms, if it were 
not so much like a surrender of my rights as a 
freeman, and a selling of my soul, to purchase 
that life, and a desertion of her to whom I owe 
that life, in case she should after all feel kindly 
disposed toward me. ’ ’ 

“For that matter, you might with a writ of 
habeas corpus challenge even the right of the 


A FRIEND’S ADVICE. 


135 


Commander-in-Chief to sentence you for some- 
thing that you are not guilty of, and to show 
before a civil magistrate why he should not be 
enjoined from sentencing you, in times of peace, 
upon a verdict rendered under the stress of 
urgent necessity by a court-martial three months 
ago.” 

1 1 The trouble is, that we never know, whether 
we are at war or not. It is an easy matter to 
show fortitude as long as you are not confronted 
with the prospect of death. John Woods, when 
he first thought it impossible that he could be 
executed for a little transgression of the dis- 
ciplinary rules, defied them to do their worst. 
But I saw him afterwards, when he was under 
sentence of death; and when I think of the ex- 
pression on his face, the possibility of an ig- 
nominious death, as I wake from my uneasy 
dreams in the night, seems terrible. — But death 
itself does not seem as terrible as the thought 
that all the world has turned against me — that 
she, in whom I had placed my last hope, should 
ignore my letter with which I hoped to elicit 
but one word of sympathy to console me if the 
worst should come. ’ ’ 

“Did you write to her lately?” 


136 


ALV1RA. 


“I heard that she was at St. Augustine, and 
sent a letter there about six weeks ago. ’ ’ 

4 ‘At St. Augustine! With whom does she 
live?” 

“Mr. Nocera, the Alcalde, I think. At least 
so I was told, and I there addressed her. — It 
may seem plausible, ’ ’ continued he, 4 4 that a man 
like Jackson who has the heart of a lion, who 
has braved death a hundred times, as if he con- 
sidered life of no value compared to truth and 
justice, who is almost worshipped by the people, 
might nevertheless be actuated by prejudice; I 
can understand that my father, even, should 
have some distrust against me, for I have been 
disobedient to him and have nourished resent- 
ment for what may have been x^ompted by 
parental solicitude, but why she should spurn 
me for betraying her father, when I am threat- 
ened with death for my alleged comx>licity with 
him, I can not understand. ’ ’ 

“Probably,” said Woodson, taking advantage 
of this approach to a temporizing mood, “it 
would be better for you to compromise the mat- 
ter after all.” 

“I might get some relief from my suffering — 
I might get some peace of mind when released 


A FRIEND’S ADVICE. 


137 


from this disgraceful and oppressive restraint. ’ ’ 

Woodson thought he had reason to he satis- 
fied that he had elicited this expression, and con- 
tented himself with urging the advisability of 
such a settlement; “I am at your service any 
moment to get a writ of habeas corpus; but I 
would advise you first of all to settle the matter 
by the means suggested by your father, if you 
think the girl has renounced her love for you. — 
Your honor can still be vindicated after that; 
for we can then insist on a strict examination 
of the men who intercepted your letters/ ’ 

‘ 1 1 have an idea myself that this might be the 
best course, and I will speak to my father about 
it when he returns,’ ’ said Victor. 

“Then,” continued Woodson, “I think we 
can postpone the further discussion of the sub- 
ject until you have seen your father again; and 
meanwhile I will bid you farewell for a short 
time. I have concluded to go to Rodrigue’s 
plantation — by the way, do you remember seeing 
a young lady dressed as a Sylph and wearing a 
half-mask, on the evening of the masquerade 
at Rodrigue ’s f ” 

“That is so long ago that I cannot remember 
much about it. ’ ’ 


138 


ALVIRA. 


“I think you said Miss Renfrow was living 
at Baton Rouge at the time; and this young 
lady seems to have lived there, too, for some 
time. They may have been acquainted with 
each other, and I thought you might possibly 
remember having heard Miss Renfrow speak 
about this particular mask.” 

“I cannot at this moment remember any such 
circumstance. ’ ’ 

“She was staying with the family of a gro- 
cer.” 

“Why? What is your object in making this 
inquiry ?” 

“Oh, merely to satisfy my conscience about a 
trifle. ’ * 

“Are you tangled up in some romantic af- 
fair ?” 

“Oh, no. This young lady is practically a 
stranger to me. That was the first, and the only 
time I ever saw her, and I did not then see her 
face, or learn her name ; and I haven’t the slight- 
est idea where she lives or where she can be 
found.” 

“You haven’t an idea of looking her up, with 
a view of winning her favor?” 

“No, I have not. I did not know anything at 


A FRIEND’S ADVICE. 


139 


all about her, and did not speak to her longer 
than fifteen minutes, and have no such purpose 
in looking her up. But I must admit that I have 
been a little worried over the matter. I acted 
upon a thoughtless impulse, no doubt influenced 
by the foolishness I saw going on around me, and 
proposed an exchange of rings, by which we 
might recognize each other if we should meet 
again; and, some how, I have been haunted by 
an idea that I am under obligations to redeem 
my ring, which was given to me by a dear 
friend.’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That was rather rash, though I suppose the 
young lady regarded the incident in the same 
light that you did, and has not thought much 
of it since. — You will call again before returning 
to St. Augustine, by all means!” 

“0, certainly!” 

“When can I expect to see you again!” 

“At most in four days. — I shall hurry back as 
fast as I can; and meanwhile you must not lose 
your hold on your father. — Do everything you 
possibly can to secure his immediate active as- 
sistance. 9 9 


CHAPTER XVI. 

ADVICE AND SACRIFICE IN VAIN. 

TITHEN Woodson arrived at Montagneu, the 
** post office for Rodrigue’s plantation, 
after two days hard riding, he was referred to a 
Mr. Clark, who had bought the plantation. 

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Clark, “Mr. Rodrigue 
moved to the neighborhood of Natchez, nearly 
two years ago; but I do not know whether he 
lives there now. — So you were at that masquer- 
ade too?” continued he offering Woodson a 
chair. 

“Yes. We came up on the invitation of Mr. 
Rodrigue; and as I happened for the first time 
since the battle, to be so far west, I thought I 
would come to see the old gentleman who was 
so kind as to invite us.” 

‘ ‘ I was present myself, with my wife and two 
little girls. I owned a small plantation, then, 
between here and Baton Rouge. ’ ’ 

“There were some people from Baton Rouge 
140 


ADVICE AND SACRIFICE IN VAIN. 141 


and New Orleans at the entertainment too.” 

“0, yes, quite a number.” 

i ‘ There was the daughter of an Indian trader 
from Florida, who had been escorted to the 
masquerade by one of our men. ’ ’ 

“Let me see! — I think she was staying with 
old Valde?” 

“And I met a young lady who was temporarily 
the guest of a family of small means at Baton 
Rouge, to escape the danger threatening from 
the British attack. — I can’t remember her name. 
— I think she was from a New Orleans sem- 
inary?” 

“I guess it is the niece of the Baronnes you 
refer to, who was staying with old Menard, the 
grocer. I don’t remember her name either.” 

“I did not learn whether this young lady’s 
home was in this vicinity ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know. The Baronnes, themselves, 
had removed to Brunswick, Georgia. — Were you 
acquainted with any of the men engaged in the 
shooting affair?” 

“I was acquainted with Lieutenant Victor, 
who was assaulted by Beardslow.” 

“You weren’t engaged in the affair your- 
self?” 


142 


ALV1RA. 


“No. When I heard the shot, I was separated 
from the young lady I was escorting, by the ex- 
cited crowd; and wishing to be assured of her 
safety, I hunted for her, and saw nothing of 
the affray; and I did not even see Victor until 
1 returned to New Orleans.’ ’ 

“He seemed to be a brave man?” 

“Yes,” said Woodson. “He is an honorable 
and generous-hearted man.” 

‘ 4 He is living, is he ? ” 

“Yes, he is at present at Mobile.” 

As Woodson had already spent more time on 
this trip than he had intended and his anxiety 
about his friend urged him to return at once, he 
expressed this purpose. But he was persuaded 
by Mr. Clark to rest himself and his horse, and 
to return on the following morning, being of- 
fered the hospitality of the house; which after 
a little hesitation, he thought best to accept. 

He started back early on the following morn- 
ing but his entire trip consumed over five days, 
instead of four, as he had thought it would, and 
he met with a very serious disappointment in 
the end. When he called at the barracks, he 
was told that the prisoner from St. Mark had 
been removed; and he was unable to get any 


ADVICE AND SACRIFICE IN VAIN. 143 


information concerning old Mr. Victor from the 
guard or from the officer to whom he was re- 
ferred, who seemed to regard him with some sus- 
picion, when, clothed as a civilian, he claimed 
the rank of Captain, and tried to give reasons 
why he had so suddenly departed and staid 
away five days, to visit a gentleman on a mission, 
the object of which he could not easily explain. 

The episode of the “Sylph,” certainly now 
seemed to justify a belief in an inexplicable 
force of destiny. Woodson had spent the years 
intervening between his departure from New 
Orleans and his return to St. Augustine, without 
thinking much about the exchange of the rings ; 
until the proximity of the place where he had 
entered into this engagement, reminded him of 
it, and urged him to fulfill the promise he had 
given the “Sylph,” that he would surely make 
an effort to find her again. And, as a conse- 
quence, the case of Victor had assumed the 
aspect of an unfathomable mystery. — 

What could lie do? It suddenly occurred to 
him that he had forgotten to confer with the 
father again, after discussing the matter with 
Victor, and that he might have forfeited his 
confidence by that. — And, had he not encouraged 


144 


ALVIRA. 


Victor to accept liis release and rest under the 
suspicion of being guilty of treasonable designs, 
when he had it in his power to get justice by 
demanding it from J ackson, who had never been 
guilty of pursuing a devious course, and to 
whom any resort to such a course would, in it- 
self, seem evidence of guilt ? ’ ’ 

These were unpleasant thoughts, and they 
were rendered no less disconcerting, when he 
reflected that he was off his post of duty without 
leave, and would have to hasten back to obviate 
the risk of being disciplined himself, if the Gen- 
eral should hear of this, without his having a 
chance to explain. But, then again, he thought 
that Victor could not possibly be in danger, and 
might not, either, have compromised with his 
father, but might have been unconditionally re- 
leased, and, to escape inconvenience, might have 
merely acquiesced in whatever arrangements his 
father had made, to elude the questions of in- 
quisitive people, with the intention of explaining 
the case later to his friends; and he concluded to 
go home. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A PROPOSAL. 

TT was morning. Mr. Concle took his seat as 
usual at the breakfast table, Mrs. Conde 
had already been seated for some time, and 
shortly afterwards Woodson, who had returned 
the evening before, dropped in and took a place 
opposite to her; but it was in vain that they 
waited for Florence. 

‘ ‘ What can keep Florence so long ? ’ ’ said Mrs. 
Conde at last; “Would you please go up, Harry, 
and ask her to come to breakfast V 9 

Woodson accordingly stepped out, and skip- 
ping up the one flight of stairs approached the 
door of Florence’s room, which was partly open, 
and after tapping at it, walked in without await- 
ing an invitation, which did not immediately 
come. 

Florence was sitting at a table with her back 
145 


146 


ALVIRA. 


toward him, and seemed deeply absorbed in a 
letter which was lying open before her; and, as 
he thought he might seem intrusive if he ap- 
proached anj' nearer, he stopped at the door to 
rap again, somewhat louder. 

She turned her head. 

“Oh!” exclaimed she, then, assuming a tone 
of gaiety, as she held out the paper she had been 
so deeply interested in; “see what a nice letter 
I received ! ’ ’ 

He stepped up to take the letter and read it. 
It was evidently from one of the so-called great 
men, who have a subordinate to write the letter, 
and only supply it with a scrawled signature. 

“Who is this Augustus St. Cyn,” said he 
after reading it, while a dark expression settled 
on his face. 

“ He is my father ’s esteemed friend, the son of 
the millionaire, who lias a mortgage on New 
Orleans, as Papa says! And I am to be his 
wife. — 0, that ’ll be delightful ! ’ ’ added she sud- 
denly rising; and then, with a serious expression 
on her face that belied the tone of her voice, she 
began to walk excitedly up and down the room, 
while he folded the letter and laid it on the table. 

“When is he coming?” said Woodson at last, 


A PROPOSAL. 


147 


to interrupt the awkward silence that had en- 
sued. 

“He has just recovered from a very serious 
indisposition, which threatened to result in 
death, as Papa informs me, and regrets that he 
cannot at once hasten to St. Augustine to woo 
me, in conformity with the wishes of his father. 
But he will depart as soon as possible.” 

Woodson stood for some time in meditation. 
At last Florence stopped before him, and ad- 
dressed him in a tone of forced gaiety : 

“Why don’t you congratulate me!” 

“How can I! — ” said he; and then, after hesi- 
tating a moment as if uncertain what else to 
say, he continued; “I don’t know what kind of 
man St. Cyn may be — whether he can make you 
happy or not. ’ ’ 

“You do not know whether he can ma^e me 
happy! Oh, how shortsighted you are! Can 
you doubt for a moment that a man who has a 
mortgage, so to say, on the whole city of New 
Orleans, will make his wife happy!” 

4 ‘ Have you ever seen him ! ’ ’ 

“No. But Papa has, — let me see, — I think it 
was about eight years ago, when he was in New 
Orleans; and he says he is a perfect Adonis.” 


148 


ALVIRA. 


‘ ‘That was a long while ago. — He may have 
changed. Moreover your perfect Adonis cannot 
possibly love you yet.” 

“But he promises to woo me in conformity 
with the wishes of his father. ’ ’ 

“Yes, he may naturally try to convince you 
that you will make a good bargain. ’ ’ 

She stood looking into his eyes with a super- 
naturally serious expression, as if trying to pen- 
etrate to the bottom of his soul with her fixed 
stare. 

“But,” continued he, as if to tone down the 
harshness of his last expression, “maybe all will 
he well in the end. ’ ’ 

6 ‘ All will be well ! ’ ’ exclaimed she with a sud- 
den and very marked rising inflexion, while she 
still looked straight into his eyes; and then, 
lowering her voice and speaking with a tinge 
of irony, she continued, “I should think all 
would be well. Do you know that old St. Cyn 
is the savior of his country, so to speak!” 
(imitating her father’s manner). “Do you know 
that Jackson almost went down on his knees to 
him, to beg the loan of the money which alone 
enabled him to buy clothes for his ‘ ragged 
militia’, and to move at New Orleans! — Old St. 


A PROPOSAL. 


149 


Cyn can ask any favor lie wishes; and if his 
son should choose to enter the diplomatic serv- 
ice, he could go to Paris, or the like. — 0, just 
think of it, to go to Paris as the wife of the 
charge d’ affairs of the United States! — What 
a glorious future that would be. — But come,” 
said she again changing her manner and speak- 
ing in an affected tone of politeness, “let us 
go down; our breakfast will be getting cold.” 

On the afternoon following the receipt of 
young St. Cyn’s letter, the weather was excep- 
tionally fine, and Woodson, on the pretense of 
being in quest of a book, followed Florence into 
the garden where he had seen her enter an arbor, 
and found her seated on a bench. 

“I wished to ask whether you took Delphine 
with you?” said he as he stood at the entrance, 
after trying to attract her attention with a little 
cough. 

But neither the cough nor his question seemed 
to have attracted her notice, for she kept her 
eyes fixed on a book in which she was, or seemed 
to be, deeply absorbed. 

“What is the matter, Florence?” said he, 
changing his tone as if to protest against such 
treatment. 


150 


ALV1RA. 


i i What is the matter with you ? ’ y retorted she, 
suddenly throwing down the book and turning 
to look at him with an expression of something 
as nearly like defiance, as her charming face 
could express. 

“I have reason to think, ’ ’ said he, “that my 
presence may be inconvenient in the house when 
this Mr. St. Cyn comes, and I think it best to 
look for other quarters.” 

“Then why do you waste your time here read- 
ing sentimental novels !” 

“If you want me to go at once, I will do so.” 

“I did not say that I wanted you to go at 
once ; and as to your presence being inconvenient 
to Mr. St. Cyn, he might possibly not come at 
all.” 

4 ‘ Why ? ’ ’ 

“Because his doctor may not permit him to 
come.” 

“You are pleased to be facetious; but I can 
not appreciate such humor at present. ’ * 

“In all seriousness, then, who told you I was 
going to encourage him to come!” 

“Is it possible that you will reject him!” 

“I am not quite certain, yet, on that point,” 
said she with a demure expression. 



“IF YOU WANT ME TO GO AT ONCE 


WILL DO SO” 







* 


































* 




























































A PROPOSAL. 


151 


4 4 Not quite certain ?’* 

“No. I am not quite certain whether it would 
he either proper for me to give him any encour- 
agement, or safe to reject him; because I have, 
in a manner, entered upon an agreement with 
another.* * 

‘ 4 What ! ’ * exclaimed he ; “Do you mean to say 
that you were already engaged before that letter 
of St. Cyn’s arrived? — Oh, Florence, I never 
would have believed this of you ! ’ ’ 

“What, that I should engage myself?’* 

“Not that exactly, but that you should have 
treated me as you did.** 

“Have I not treated you kindly?** 

“Yes, you have. You treated me too kindly 
in the past, to tell me now that you were already 
engaged before Mr. St. Cyn made his proposal 
to you.** 

“But my dear sir, you are under a misappre- 
hension. If I should accept Mr. St. Cyn, he 
would not be the second, but the first whose pro- 
posal I had given any very serious consider- 
ation.** 

“But you did not take any pains to discourage 
the attentions of others.** 

“What do you mean by that?** 


152 


ALV1RA. 


‘ ‘ I only meant to express my surprise that you 
should encourage the addresses of three lovers, 
and probably I should not do that — ” 

‘‘No indeed, you should not be so reckless in 
your computation, for I, at least, am so modest 
as to believe that in the most favorable event, I 
have only one lover.* * 

“And to him you ai^e engaged?” 

“As I say, I am somewhat in doubt about 
that.” 

“You are pleased to speak in riddles.* * 

“If so, they are riddles to me too. But per- 
haps you will kindly help me to solve them.** 
“I am at your service.** 

“Imagine then a young man who made a 
declaration to me that I had prepared for him 
the only moments of happiness he had ever 
known; that the day he met me was the most 
eventful one in all his life ; that if he should be 
separated from me he would seek death in what- 
ever way he could find it ; and who finally, as a 
pledge that he would be true to me, gave me this 
ring. * * 

So saying she held out her left hand, on which 
she had a ring with a precious stone that glittered 
brightly in the sunshine. 


A PROPOSAL. 


153 


“Do yon not think, ’ ’ added she, “that such a 
token, presented under such protestations of at- 
tachment, was a pledge for the fulfillment of 
some promise? or, in other words, that an ex- 
change of rings, upon such declarations, might 
be considered an engagement ? ’ ’ 

He was confused, and drew his hand across his 
forehead, as though to brush aside a puzzling im- 
pression ; but the next instant he had taken her 
hand and pressed it to his lips. He remained 
thus for a moment, overwhelmed by the emotions 
that had been awakened in him. The recollection 
of the incident when he had given this ring, 
which had for a time cheered him in the trying 
period of hunger, thirst, and suffering on the 
field, had not once recurred to him while in the 
presence of Florence; but now it filled his heart 
to overflowing. He put his arm around her, while 
she laid her head on his shoulder and again wept 
as she had on his first departure from St. Augus- 
tine; and he endeavored to soothe her with his 


caresses. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A PATHETIC PLEA. 

t^TITHAT became of you,” continued Wood- 
* ^ son, when their emotions had somewhat 
subsided , 4 4 after we were separated in the tumult 
occasioned by the shooting?” 

“I looked for the girl,” said Florence, “with 
whom I had come; and for her brother, who im- 
mediately took us home.” 

“But how did you find out that it was I who 
gave you this ring?” 

“Did you think you would not be noticed, 
when you persisted in promenading up and down 
the pavement before the boarding school in the 
Faubourg Ste. Marie?” 

“Was it there where your home was?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Did you then know who I was ? ” 

154 


A PATHETIC PLEA. 


155 


“No, but I gradually recognized your figure 
and your manner of walking, during my recent 
observations, as being identical with those of 
the promenader in Ste. Marie and the pert gen- 
tleman at Rodrigue ’s. ’ * 

“Why didn’t you, at Rodrigue’s, inquire of 
me about me ? Why, when you had been looking 
so intently at this pert fellow at the masquerade, 
didn’t the idea strike you that he must know 
something about me, since you might have known 
that I joined the army?” 

“I might just as well ask you, why didn’t you 
then ask me whether I knew a young lady named 
Conde ? for you might have known that I should 
be sent to one of the seminaries at New Orleans. 
Or I might ask, why didn’t you write to me as 
you promised? for your adventures had certainly 
been interesting enough to compose at least 
one letter, if only one-half of what you told me 
of your experience in New Orleans, and Mobile, 
is true.” 

‘ ‘ 0, that was because I always thought of you 
only as a little girl to whom I could not well 
write upon such subjects.” 

“And I, if ever I thought of you among all 
the agreeable companions at the seminary, and 


156 


ALVIRA. 


our little beaux at the occasional fetes , pictured 
you to myself only as the obstinate boy, who 
would not listen to my entreaties that he should 
not desert us, and could not, when I heard of all 
the dreadful things that had been done in that 
war, imagine that the companion of our harmless 
little adventures in St. Augustine could have 
taken part in these dreadful things. ’ ’ 

“ These dreadful things!” 

“Yes. They appeared horrible to me then, 
when I saw the anxiety of all the people of New 
Orleans, who were threatened by the invasion of 
that monstrous British fleet and army. I didn’t 
at that moment, in the giddy throng of Mr. Rod- 
rigue’s masquerade, think of the possibility that 
the great man in the gorgeous courtier outfit, 
could know anything about the boy who had 
started out on a wild goose chase, and of whom 
we had never heard a word. And, moreover, I 
was too anxious to conceal my identity. I had 
only accepted the invitation to go with the gro- 
cer’s daughter at the urgent request of her par- 
ents ; and if I had asked of a stranger whether he 
knew you, and he should have known you, my se- 
cret would have been divulged, and I ran the risk 
of receiving a very severe reprimand. And possi- 


A PATHETIC PLEA . 


157 


bly I might still have thought of asking you, if 
it hadn A been for that terrible shooting affair. ’ ’ 

“But why didn’t you, here, sooner reveal your 
identity with this mysterious Sylph? It was 
partly on account of that young lady that I made 
the trip to Mobile. From there I went to the 
Rodrigue plantation to inquire for her, and 
learned that her uncle or aunt lived at Bruns- 
wick. But I never imagined that she herself 
lived at St. Augustine. ’ 9 

“I half suspected that you were in love with 
that ideal face of gauze. In fact, I wanted to be 
fully assured that you could be won by the 
charm of features less in accord with that stand- 
ard of beauty, before I would reveal my secret, 
and I might have kept it much longer if it hadn’t 
been for the arrival of St. Cyn’s letter; for I 
was still distrustful of my own face, in view of 
your ardent devotion to the other.” 

“You are mistaken; I wanted to cancel that 
engagement ; and I believe that you are as thor- 
oughly convinced that your charms are irresist- 
ible, as I am. — But tell me,” continued he ser- 
iously, “what shall we do if this Mr. St. Cyn 
does come?” 

“Well,” said she, pushing him out of the 


158 


ALVIRA. 


bower ; ‘ ‘ walk down slowly toward the Mole, and 
I will go and get my liat, and join you. We can 
take a walk there, and consider the best way to 
frustrate the plan of Papa and old Mr. St. Cyn, 
concerning this frail young man. ’ ’ 

On the morning after this eclaircissement, 
Woodson took occasion to engage Florence in a 
serious conversation. 

‘ ‘ Florence, ’ ’ said he, “do you think it pos- 
sible that your father might be plotting with this 
man Froard to have me removed from here?” 
He had remembered that this was the owner of 
the face which busied his mind at the enter- 
tainment in the hotel. 

“What?” said she in a tone of consternation, 
“Has anybody made such an assertion?” 

“No. But it seems to me that he has of late 
treated me rather coldly, and that he has con- 
sulted more than necesary with the Noceras, who 
seem to be quite infatuated with Froard, who, 
I think, is working to get control of affairs here ; 
and as your father seems determined to give you 
to St. Cyn, I can well imagine that he might think 
it expedient to co-operate with Froard, Nocera, 
and Governor Coppinger to have me recalled, 
which would now be rather inconvenient ; and as 


A PATHETIC PLEA. 


159 


I can’t get rid of a feeling about Victor, too, that 
makes me perfectly miserable, I have an idea 
of making another trip to the west to inquire 
into these affairs.” 

‘ 4 Will you be gone long ? ’ ’ 

‘ 6 I don ’t know exactly how long this trip will 
take ; but there is a possibility that St. Cyn might 
arrive before I return ; and we must try to dis- 
cuss this matter more seriously than we have 
done so far. — Picture to yourself the chance of 
his coming while I am gone, and his approaching 
you with the free and easy manner which these 
great men have, and with that insinuating, pa- 
tronizing tone with which they know so well how 
to overcome the little self assurance that common 
mortals have — ” 

‘ ‘ But I don ’t consider myself a common mor- 
tal—” 

“Do you mean to say that you would treat a 
man with a big fortune to back him, like you 
would me; and that, without having a soul to 
encourage you to resist, you could not be over- 
come by the silver-tongued eloquence of the ac- 
complished, scholarly, captivating son of the 
great capitalist?” 

“I do not presume to know how I should be 


160 


ALVIRA. 


affected, if I were approached under such condi- 
tions by a really superior being; but I think I 
could see through any of the pretenses that the 
man would be likely to make, who was guilty of 
writing such a letter as I received from this St. 
Cyn. — But is it absolutely necessary that you 
should go on this errand just now!” 

‘ 4 It is very urgent that I should. ’ * 

‘ 1 Where are you going!” 

“I want to see Jackson, who is at Mobile now, 
I think, and if I get there in time I shall go to 
New Orleans to look up St. Cyn, too, and argue 
with him. I think that if he is reasonable, I can 
persuade him to abandon his claim on you, as 
he certainly can have no affection for you yet.” 

4 ‘I thought you said Victor had been re- 
leased!” 

4 ‘ So it seemed, but I have just received a let- 
ter from a friend, and there now seems to be a 
most perplexing mystery in connection with his 
case. I could not get any trace of him before I 
left, and as my friend writes that it is a very 
mysterious case, my apprehensions have been 
roused again. I can’t ward off an idea that 
there has been some underhand dealing by his 
father. I think he may have been trying to get 


A PATHETIC PLEA. 


161 


his son released, not by asserting and proving 
his innocence, for that would not suit his purpose 
of compelling him to renounce Miss Renfrow, 
but by affecting a distrust of his son in order to 
make him compliant, before offering to inter- 
cede.” 

“Oh, that is a horrible idea! — Do you think 
that his father would try to compel him to re- 
nounce the girl, by such a stratagem V 1 

“I believe,” said Woodson, “that the old man 
might be capable of doing this in order to make 
his son completely submissive. ’ ’ 

“And do you think, ’ ’ said Florence, “That 
you can help Victor !” 

“I do not know. This is only a surmise. But 
Victor may still be a prisoner ; and as he has been 
sick a long time, and has gone through great 
hardships and suffering, his spirit may be bro- 
ken, and he may be urgently in need of help. — 
I did, in a manner disappoint him when I was 
there, by going on this trip to Baton Rouge and 
staying away five days, and he may have felt 
as though he had no friends at all, whereas some 
renewed endeavor in his behalf might give him 
courage again to assert his rights. But I want 
to go to New Orleans, also, to see St. Cyn if I 


162 


ALVIRA. 


can get a chance, and want to dissuade him from 
undertaking a fruitless trip of a thousand miles. ’ ’ 

“I hope you do not think of quarreling with 
him ? ’ ’ 

“I’ll try to confine myself to persuasion, and 
as I have never been in any serious trouble yet, 
I think I can guard against danger in this case 
too.” 

“I advise no bluster, or resort to violence. 
They cannot compel me to marry him, and I 
think it will be best to await further develop- 
ments. Common sense and patience must tri- 
umph in the end. I believe that Mamma can be 
won over to our side ; and if she can, Papa will 
be too goodnatured to insist on having his way. 
I shall confide the matter to Mamma, and quietly 
persist in my opposition, but say nothing to rouse 
distrust, while trying to induce them to take our 
view of it. And as a last recourse, I have an idea 
which I think may help us in case of extreme 
necessity. ’ ’ 

“What is that!” 

“My Aunt Baronne, in Brunswick, will, I 
think, sympathize with me in this dilemma ; and 
I will shortly before St. Cyn may be expected to 
arrive, request premission to visit her ; and this 


A PATHETIC PLEA. 


163 


being granted, I shall stay there until you call 
for me, whereupon we can further discuss what 
is to be done.” 

Woodson hereupon faithfully promised not to 
quarrel with St. Cyn, under any circumstances, 
and finally bade her farewell. But he did not 
immediately leave the town, as he had deter- 
mined to call on Alvira. 

As Woodson did not remember ever seeing 
Alvira, and supposed that she did not know him, 
he was for a while at a loss how to get an inter- 
view on such short notice without furnishing 
matter for gossip ; and he had almost concluded 
that it would be best to inform Mr. Nocera of his 
purpose to communicate with her concerning 
Victor, when fortunately, as he was passing 
along the side street on which one part of the 
house fronted, he noticed a beautiful young girl 
engaged in tying up some flowers in the garden, 
in whom he thought he recognized Miss Ben- 
frow. He approached her without hesitation, 
and spoke to her on the pretext of admiring her 
flowers, and during the conversation that ensued, 
introduced himself with the remark that possibly 
they were not entire strangers. 

“You are the officer that came from Fernan- 


1 04 


ALV1RA. 


dina, I know, but I cannot remember meeting 
you before.’ ’ 

“I was at the plantation of Mr. Rodrigue, near 
Baton Rouge, at the time when you were there, 
shortly before the battle of New Orleans.” 

She blushed and seemed embarrassed. 

“My purpose was to speak to you about Mr. 
Victor. ’ 9 

“Have you any word from him?” 

“Yes,” said he, “and as I am going to Mobile 
I may possibly get a chance to see him.” 

He paused, thinking that she might express a 
desire to intrust him with a message, but she re- 
mained silent, still looking at him with an ex- 
pectant glance. 

“Have you any message for him?” said he at 
last. 

“How did you hear of his being at Mobile?” 

“I was there two weeks ago.” 

‘ ‘ Did you see him then ? ’ 9 

“Yes, I had a long conversation with him. — I 
do not know, ” continued he in an apologetic tone, 
“whether I have a right to speak to you further 
on this subject; but I think he is deeply inter- 
ested in you, and I would gladly be the bearer 
of some greeting from you to him.” 



MY PURPOSE WAS TO SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT MR. VICTOR 



A PATHETIC PLEA. 


165 


“I cannot, ” said she, in a low tone, ‘ ‘ very 
well assume that he would be interested in any- 
thing that I could communicate to him. — I have 
not heard from him, directly, since I left St. 
Mark. * 9 

“Did you get no letter from him since then? — 
He said he had written to you some time ago. ’ ’ 

“No,” said she in the same low tone. 

‘ ‘ Then his letter must have been lost. — I sup- 
pose you know he is a prisoner?” 

“Yes.” 

i ‘ Charged with an offense for which he might 
possibly suffer a severe penalty?” 

“I have heard nothing regarding the charge 
against him except what he himself told me be- 
fore I departed from St. Mark. ’ ’ 

“Though his father left him in doubt about 
his disposition toward him, and seems inclined to 
make it a condition for exerting himself in his 
behalf, that he shall renounce all thoughts of 
you, I got the impression that he might refuse to 
consider this proposition. — But I am not certain. 
— In fact there is some mystery connected with 
the matter which I am trying to solve.— Could 
I give him some assurance that you are kindly 
disposed toward him?” 


166 


ALV1RA. 


“You may express my wishes for his future 
welfare.” 

4 ‘I cannot hut think that there must be some 
hope for him. I think his father may relent. He 
seemed to be affected by his son’s suffering, and 
it would be strange if he would not try to get him 
released without imposing such conditions on 
him.” 

“You may tell him — but never mind. — For tne 
present I will merely thank you for your kind 
intentions. It is impossible for me to say more — 
except that he has my sympathy in his dis- 
tress.” 

“In the absence of any certainty that he will 
soon be relieved of his anxiety, I, for one, would 
be in favor of some prompt action, to put an end 
to the matter by applying for a writ of habeas 
corpus. It is with some purpose of taking such a 
step that I am going to Mobile now, but irre- 
spective of this, I should like to bring him the 
assurance that his affection for you is recipro- 
cated.” 

“I should think that if he wanted information 
on this, he would have addressed himself to me 
directly. ’ ’ 

“He said he had written to you, and possibly 


A PATHETIC PLEA . 


167 


the letter may yet come. The mails are some- 
times delayed.” 

“ Nevertheless,’ ’ said she with an expression 
on her face which betrayed something of the feel- 
ings that were wringing her heart, “I cannot give 
you any other message. God knows that I should 
be the last one, to nourish pride, or to turn away 
from one who may be suffering agony, but how 
can I give him this assurance? — Probably I ought 
to know what his feelings toward me are, and 
what mine are toward him. We had enough op- 
portunity to learn something of each other’s 
thoughts and inclinations; but I could not, from 
anything that I observed, assume that he — is 
interested in me now.” 

“Do you think his professions were not sin- 
cere?” 

“I cannot presume to understand what his 
feelings are.” 

‘ ‘ But you will send him a kind word at least ? ’ ’ 

“I would do more. I would plead for him, if 
it might help him. I would help him in any way 
that is in my power and consistent with self- 
respect. I will testify to the best of my knowl- 
edge concerning his acts while he is said to have 
been guilty of the things for which he has been 


168 


ALVIRA. 


prosecuted — but I cannot encourage him to run 
any risk on my account/ 1 

“But he himself has said that he would not 
renounce the right to dispose of his affections as 
his conscience dictates, as that would seem to 
him like selling his soul ; and, so far as I could 
understand him, he placed all his hopes in the 
answer he would get to his letter, regardless of 
what his fate might otherwise be.” 

4 4 1 can imagine that he may wish to get con- 
solation. — When we parted at St. Mark, it seem- 
ed that hope and faith had fled from me for- 
ever; and yet, after that, when I was almost 
heartbroken by the misfortune which left me des- 
titute and friendless, if I had received but one 
word of consolation, I might have felt reassured. 
But being denied that, I was overwhelmed with a 
feeling of inferiority and a conviction that I was 
doomed to everlasting hopelessness; and I have 
not yet been convinced that your friend was quite 
justified in acting as he did. ” 

“But he has suffered for his attachment to 
you. Because he loved you, he confronted death 
at Baton Rouge, and was disowned by his father. 
Because he spoke in defense of your father, he 
was suspected of being a traitor. — Unfortunately 


A PATHETIC PLEA. 


169 


prejudice is generally too strong on both sides 
in these cases, and prevents the expression of a 
heartfelt sympathy that no doubt exists; but it 
would be a pity to let this interfere even where 
our most tender affections are concerned. ’ ’ 

“I think I have not quite succeeded in making 
my position understood. What I meant to say 
especially is, that I have become resigned to my 
present condition, and do not wish to encourage 
him to make a sacrifice for me.” 

“I understand your position; but I think there 
may be a better mission for you in life than 
merely to suffer. There can be no greater stim- 
ulant to hope, than to look into a heart where we 
can see ourselves reflected in the light of love, — 
and if I could bring him some assurance that his 
memory is cherished by you, I would consider 
it a favor to me, because I know that if the worst 
should come, it would enable him to bear up 
bravely, in a manner worthy of his past career. * ’ 

She stood for a moment with her eyes turned 
down, as if undecided what to say. At last she 
looked up, and he perceived that her eyes were 
moist. 

“It would be ungrateful in me,” said she, in a 
low tone, “not to appreciate your kindness. But 


170 


ALVIRA. 


I must leave it to you, to judge my feelings from 
what I have so far expressed, and to say to him 
what you think proper — I can say no more. ’ 7 
Woodson was too much impressed by the nat- 
ural dignity with which she said this to make 
any further effort at persuasion. He only 
bowed, and in a respectful tone said he would 
take the liberty to call on her when he returned. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A RIVAL. 

LVIRA had been left without a relative or 
friend, deprived of her home and depend- 
ent on the charity of strangers. She had fled 
from St. Mark, and had been compelled to seek 
refuge wherever she might find shelter, her fath- 
er’s property having been confiscated and his 
patrons, the Indians, driven into the inaccessible 
retreats of the Everglades. — Misfortune had al- 
most wiped out the memory of her former life. 
The happiness of the days when she was a child, 
and the varying fortunes since then in which 
there had been moments of happiness, were like 
dreams. Even the man, who seemed to have 
raised her for a time to a plane above her proud 
schoolmates at the seminary, sometimes seemed 
to her a shadow, — for she never had sign or word 
direct from him since they parted at St. Mark, 
171 


172 


ALVIRA. 


though she had written to him. 

She had betrayed to her friend, Lydia, the 
pitiable condition in which she was, and had 
been offered the hospitality of the Nocera home, 
where she found a situation intermediate be- 
tween friend and servant. 

It was evening, several days after her inter- 
view with Woodson, and she was sitting alone in 
her room, in the back part of the Nocera resi- 
dence fronting one of the two streets adjoining 
the house, when she heard a knock at the door; 
and upon opening it she confronted a stranger, 
dressed in the uniform of a guard. 

“Have I the pleasure of speaking to Miss 
Renfrow?” asked the caller. 

“That is my name,” answered she in a low 
tone and with a somewhat hesitant expression. 

“I come to speak to you about matters of some 
importance to you, and am authorized to refer 
to Mr. Froard as an introduction. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes,” said she with somewhat more as- 
surance, “Mr. Froard told me that you had only 
a short time ago been at St. Mark, and that you 
wished to speak to me. Please step in.” 

She dropped into a tone of more easy familiar- 
ity with the coast guard who was recommended 


A RIVAL. 


173 


by a friend of her benefactors, than she could 
assume toward the handsome officer of the United 
States Army. 

4 4 1 have but a little while to stay, ’ ’ continued 
the guard, “and will, therefore, in a few words 
explain the purpose of my coming, which is to 
speak to you concerning your father’s prop- 
erty. ’ ’ 

“What is your name? — Mr. Froard did not 
mention it. 

“Do you not remember me!” 

“She looked at him in silence and with some 
perplexity. At last she said, ‘ ‘ I have seen you, 
but cannot remember where.” 

“My name is Beardslow. I saw you at the 
masquerade at Rodrigue’s plantation, and my 
purpose is to help you out of your distress.” 

‘ ‘ 0, you are the man who made the assault on 
Mr. Victor!” exclaimed she, just then assured 
of his identity. 

4 4 1 was but resenting his attempt to debase me 
in the eyes of her whose regard I rated very 
high. I had been treated outrageously, for no 
other cause than that I expressed my esteem for 
you. I had been made to bear indignity and 
insult before you, and how was it possible for 


174 


ALV1RA. 


me to thrust aside the feeling of mortification 
at that, and to be considerate and forgiving to- 
ward the man who was the cause of this f ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There is a wide difference between being kind 
and forgiving toward a man, and making such an 
assault on him.” 

“You should forgive this fault in considera- 
tion of the motive that prompted it. There is 
a chance now for me to make amends. You have 
suffered even more than I have; and if I can 
get you, who have also suffered by the selfish- 
ness of this man, to sanction my plan for your 
relief, I feel that I shall be forgiven for all the 
wrong I have done.” 

He paused a moment as if expecting a re- 
sponse ; but as she did not answer he continued : 

“I was impressed by your misfortune, and 
have determined to help one who has borne her 
afflictions with such unexampled patience. I 
was arrested by Francis with two other men, but 
immediately released, and was on that account 
mistrusted by the enemies of your father; and 
because I denied that Jackson had any right to 
execute your father and confiscate your prop- 
erty, I was discharged, and I am trying to re- 
trieve my fortune as well as yours. It was in 


A RIVAL. 


175 


the pursuit of this object that I obtained evi- 
dence with which I hope to help you recover your 
property, and I can truly say that I have no 
greater object in life than to win your esteem. 
I place my hope on nothing else. — I will own 
allegiance to no other law than your command, 
if you will give me your confidence in return. 
From your approval of my endeavors, I will get 
the inspiration, the eloquence, the power to have 
justice done to you for the outrage whereby you 
were deprived of all your rights. ,, 

4 ‘ In return for your candor, ’ ' said Alvira, 4 4 1 
will also speak plainly to you. I too thought 
that I might make a claim for the recovery of 
the confiscated property of my father; but I 
have been told by the lawyers I consulted, that 
it would be useless for me to bring suit — that 
the act by which the property was confiscated is 
irrevocable. ’ ’ 

4 4 Whether they did, or did not, have a right 
to take your father's life, they had no right 
whatever to confiscate your property ; and if you 
will make a claim against the authors of your 
misfortune, it will only depend on the ability of 
your representative whether your property is 
restored or not. Your father was executed, with- 


176 


ALVIRA. 


out any process of law ; and the act of confisca- 
tion, if there was any such formality undertaken, 
took place after his death, when the property was 
yours by the law of natural descent, and if you 
take the necessary steps you can surely recover 
the property. I am certain that I made a much 
closer investigation than your lawyers, or they 
would have recovered it for you before now.” 

‘ * I suppose I ought to thank you for showing 
such interest in my welfare; but do you think 
it right to make such remarks about Mr. Victor 
as you did, though you really should have kind 
intentions toward me?” 

‘ ‘ If I shall admit that Victor is an honorable 
man, I would have to consider myself entirely 
wrong. But only if you can convince me that 
I am entirely wrong, will I give up my own as- 
pirations to your esteem; and, as I consider 
Victor volatile and unreliable, to say the least, 
and believe that I can prove myself worthier of 
your friendship, I do not think myself under 
any obligations to show deference to him. If you 
will treat me fairly, and only give me a single 
sign of encouragement, you shall be assured of 
the help of one, who has never recoiled from 
trouble^ for those, whom he esteemed, and who 


A RIVAL. 


177 


will be constant in his endeavor to merit your 
approval. ’ ’ 

“Do you think that you are justified in nour- 
ishing such animosity against one who may be 
suffering innocently, and may be in danger of 
his life?” 

“So far, I think, I have more reason to com- 
plain than he. I am told he is not in danger of 
his life ; but he has interfered with me and tried 
to injure me in the estimate of those in author- 
ity, he has publicly expressed contempt for me 
and lowered me in the estimation of my com- 
panions. — And do you think I can ever forget 
the scene in Valde’s house when he treated me 
like a culprit for presuming to speak to you, and 
what followed shortly afterwards, when he 
caused my dismissal and consequent disgrace? — 
Can you imagine what it was to be driven from 
the service, and to have the finger of scorn point- 
ed at you wherever you tried again to get a 
footing? — I do not pretend that I love him, but 
I have only availed myself of the chances he 
offered me to retaliate for the wrong he did me, 
— and I cannot sorely grieve to hear of his get- 
ting his reward for trying to be friends with 
both the Indians and their oppressors.” 


178 


ALVIRA. 


‘‘Have you any evidence that lie lias been 
guilty of wliat you charge against him ! that he 
has really tried to injure you, and that he has 
publicly expressed contempt for you, or caused 
your dismissal! — So far as I can understand 
his character, he would he incapable of resorting 
to such means to injure a man, even if he had 
reason to consider him an enemy ” 

“Is it possible that you can not understand 
the influences that may be brought to bear on men 
in the relation in which we stand toward each 
other V’ 

“I think his nature must be different from 
yours, if you consider him capable of such acts. ’ ’ 

“I think only our fortunes have been differ- 
ent! — But I hope to overcome the difference be- 
tween us in that respect. — I do not know what 
his prospects may be, and I am quite indifferent 
as to that. But I believe there is a tide in the 
fortunes of men when duty towards themselves 
requires that they shall confine all their atten- 
tion to their own affairs, and I think I have ar- 
rived at this period of my life, and that fate has 
directed me to you for the solution of an impor- 
tant problem for us both. You have, by an 
adverse fate, directed by selfish and cruel men, 


A RIVAL. 


179 


been reduced to an undeserved condition of hope- 
lessness ; but it has been my good fortune to find 
in our combined destinies the means of raising 
us both out of the despondence into which we 
have been cast.” 

‘ ‘ I cannot understand your meaning unless you 
express yourself more distinctly. — I cannot im- 
agine that our destinies should in any manner 
be connected.” 

“It is believed by most people that our des- 
tinies are concealed from us; but it requires 
only that power of discernment, which is the 
reward of intelligent endeavor, to show us what 
fortune is in store for us. It has been my privi- 
lege to get this revelation. — I have been informed 
that he has renounced you!” 

Beardslow’s feelings for her had evidently 
undergone a change since first he met her. He 
seemed to be in earnest. He revealed in his 
speech and his manner a certain enthusiasm. 
The dreadful occurrence at St. Mark had over- 
whelmed her, her feelings for Victor had under- 
gone a change, and she may have been influenced 
by these arguments. But it occurred to her that 
she ought to consult some one of her friends, 
and, she concluded to speak to Isabella Nocera 


180 


All IRA. 


upon the subect; and, as an excuse, she reverted 
to the confiscated property, saying she would 
speak to Senor Nocera upon the subject, and 
dismissed him with this. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A LETTER- FROM THE DOOMED. 

\X7TIEN Alvira met Isabella sbe confided to 
* ^ her some part of what Woodson had 
told her of Victor’s misfortunes, and what 
Beardslow had charged against him. 

“And this man Beardslow,” said Isabella, 
“was introduced by Mr. Froard?” 

“Yes.” 

“How long has Beardslow known you?” 

“I first met him three years ago.” 

“Is it your purpose, ’ ’ continued Isabella after 
a moment’s reflection, “to exert yourself in be- 
half of Victor?” 

“I should not like to see him suffer inno- 
cently.” 

‘ ‘ Beardslow has been here only a short time ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Then Mr. Froard may have known him be- 
fore, as he procured his present situation for 
him. — You had never met Mr. Froard before 
you saw him here?” 


181 


182 


ALV1RA. 


“Not that I remember, but the name seemed 
familiar when I first heard it here. ,, 

“You did at one time think that Victor had 
caused your father’s death?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Did you write to him, or he to you, since you 
parted at St. Mark?” 

“I wrote to him shortly after my escape from 
St. Mark, but received no answer . 9 y 

“I will see what I can find out about this 
case,” said Isabella. 

But she did not at once get a chance to speak 
to Mr. Froard, from whom she expected to get 
this information. A few days afterward, Alvira 
received the long delayed letter from Victor, and 
again called on Isabella. 

She handed her the letter, which had made 
a wide circuit via Milledgeville and Fernandina. 
It was dated at Mobile, and the contents were as 
follows : 

“Dear Alvira: I have often started to ad- 
dress you, but as often came the recollection of 
our last farewell, when you had only words of 
censure for me, and with it came the thought: 
what can I write that will be acceptable to her? 
— How futile for me, confronting death, to speak 


A LETTER FROM THE DOOMED . 183 


of love. But still I feel impelled to write. I 
ask you for only one word to assure me that I 
am not entirely forgotten. — Abandoned by my 
father whom I offended, and condemned on false 
evidence, I turn to you for one word of sym- 
pathy, that I may not go into eternity without 
one tie of affection with those I leave behind. 

“If you could only know how many an hour 
of the night I wandered about worrying over the 
question whether you have forgotten me, how 
dreadful the solitude, the silence and darkness, 
in which I could think of nothing but your 
charge that I was the cause of your father’s 
suffering what I may suffer now, and of what 
your feeling must have been when you witnessed 
his death and found yourself forsaken by all ! — 
It seems that I cannot die — cannot bear the 
thought of death, if I cannot get some assurance 
from you that my heart did not deceive me, that 
you at least believe me innocent of the crime 
against my country with which I am charged, 
and of the offense you once charged me with 
against your father, and that you will forgive 
whatever I may have done to cause you sorrow.” 

“Hoping to hear from you, I remain, Yours 
truly, ‘ ‘ Charles Victor. ’ 9 


184 


ALVIRA. 


“Have yon any other particulars concerning 
his case 2” 

“Yes,” said Alvira, “I have word from a 
friend at St. Mark who informed me that certain 
letters of Victor, which had been intercepted by 
the clerks of my father’s competitor, and had 
been produced at the trial, were accepted as 
evidence that he had conspired with the In- 
dians. * ’ 

“Do you believe he was guilty of this?” 

“No!” 

4 ‘ And do you think there is danger of his suf- 
fering a severe penalty?” 

“I cannot dare to form an opinion on that. 
It is an awful thing for me to think that it may 
be so, and that in view of such a possibility I 
have shown myself so indifferent when I had a 
chance to express the sympathy I felt for him, 
and could have told things that ought to be 
accepted as proof of his innocence.” 

“Do you firmly believe that he is innocent?” 

“I know that he never thought of conspiring 
with the Indians, and, if any letters have been 
produced of a treacherous character, I am sure 
he is not the author of them!” 


CHAPTER XXL 


INQUEST AND AVOWAL. 

TSABELLA thought that Froard, who had 
given Beardslow the introduction to Alvira, 
must know something of the Victor case; and 
upon parting from Alvira she started to go to 
his office in quest of him ; but on passing through 
their garden on her way there, she saw him 
seated on a bench with her sister Lydia. 

The two seemed unconscious of aught beside 
themselves, and, after rising, they lingered in 
a path sheltered from the view of Isabella, where 
they walked for some time, engaged in low con- 
versation, until Lydia chanced, when near an 
opening, to look up, and, after disengaging her 
arm, which Froard had encircled with his hand, 
hurried toward the house. — When Froard turned 
to where her gaze had been directed, he beheld 
Isabella. 


185 


180 


ALV1RA. 


“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Froard,” said 
Isabella, with a tinge of irony, as she ap- 
proached; “I wished to get a little information 
from you. — ” 

“0! I shall be glad to be of service to you.” 

“You, no doubt, are somewhat acquainted 
with the institutions and the laws of the United 
States?” 

Froard discarded a look of embarrassment; 
“lam somewhat familiar with the general prin- 
ciples of their law,” said he with a complaisant 
smile. 

“Then you can probably tell me how it is 
possible that a man can be imprisoned there for 
months, and kept in constant fear of death, in- 
stead of having his case promptly decided. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ That may happen with nobody to blame but 
the unfortunate man himself; for instance, if 
he gets the services of a very sharp lawyer to 
conduct his case.” 

‘ ‘ That might be the cause of this man ’s suffer- 
ing if he were guilty, but it seems that there is 
something at the bottom of this delay, for which 
some one else ought to be severely dealt with.” 

“Who is it you refer to?” 

“He is imprisoned at Mobile,” said she, look- 


INQUEST AND AVOWAL. 


187 


ing steadily into his eyes: “His name is Vic- 
tor. ’ ’ 

“Unfortunately for this man,” said Froard, 
“he is charged with treason and has been found 
guilty by a court-martial; and so far as I can 
learn he ought to be well satisfied that his case is 
not conducted with more promptitude. The 
reason that it is not seems to be that some of 
the officials are but too compassionate in his 
case.” 

“That is, if he is guilty!” 

“He is no doubt guilty.” 

‘ 4 How can you be so sure of that ? ’ ’ 

“The evidence indicates that he is.” 

“Alvira Renfrow, who is well acquainted with 
all the particulars, asserts that he is not.” 

“Her mere assertion can not refute the evi- 
dence given in the case. ’ ’ 

i ‘ There is a man here w T ho, I think, is trying 
to profit by this prisoner’s misfortune.” 

“Who is that?” 

“Beardslow, the man who is serving here as 
a coast guard.” 

“I gave him an introduction to Miss Renfrow. 
Probably I should have inquired whether this 
would be agreeable to you?” 


188 


ALVIRA. 


“That is of no great importance; but your 
account, and that given by this man, concerning 
the charge against Victor, so nearly agree, that 
it suggests the possibility of your being on inti- 
mate terms with him. ’ ’ 

“I can at least assure you that I know nothing 
whatever of this case of Victor, except what 
Beardslow incidentally told me, when he re- 
quested me to introduce him to Miss Renfrow, 
whom he wished to see concerning her confis- 
cated property.” 

“How long have you known Beardslow?” 

“A few years.” 

“What was his occupation formerly?” 

“He was clerking for an Indian trader before 
he came here.” 

“How long was he engaged in that?” 

“I think about two years.” 

“Was he not the cause of bringing about the 
conviction of Victor?” 

“Bringing about the conviction of Victor?” 

“Yes. — Did he not inform you of this?” 

“No. I don’t think he mentioned anything 
about his being in any way connected with it.” 

“Probably not.” 

“No. I know he did not. How do you know 


INQUEST AND AVOWAL. 


189 


that he was ! ’ ’ 

“Alvira Renfrow just had a letter from a 
friend, in which he mentioned that the clerks 
of an Indian trader, had furnished the evidence 
on which Victor was convicted . 1 1 

i ‘ I have heard nothing of this, though Beard- 
slow mentioned the case to me. — Yet even then 
you could not assert that he was the cause of 
bringing about his conviction, for it may have 
been the other clerks that gave the testimony.” 

‘ ‘ But you will admit that there must be some- 
thing wrong, if Beardslow professes to be your 
friend and has spoken to you about the case, 
without mentioning anything about the testi- 
mony of the clerks. ’ ’ 

“But this assertion concerning the testimony 
is indefinite, and Beardslow may not have 
been concerned, and the chances are, as Beard- 
slow informed me, that Victor will be leniently 
dealt with, even though he should be found 
guilty. He says his father is slow to give the 
required assurance of Victor’s loyalty, for the 
future, because he clings to this Miss Renfrow. 
It seems that the prisoner sympathizes with the 
Indians, and that his father agrees with the 
authorities, in the opinion that, as the husband 


190 


ALVIRA. 


of this girl, who grew up among the Indians, 
he might be led to make common cause with 
them and ruin himself. ’ ’ 

“Do you mean to say that the father would 
not want to see plain justice done to his son, 
under the pretense of being patriotic? — If it is 
charged that Victor has been engaged in trea- 
sonable practices, should not the father demand 
proofs? And, if he is innocent, should not the 
father insist on his being discharged, whatever 
might be the consequence to others V y 

“I only meant to intimate in a general way, 
that there are certain positions in which even 
a man like Victor’s father, though he may cher- 
ish the highest ideals of justice, might enter 
upon some compromise to carry out a measure 
that would be productive of some good. The 
issue here may be, whether, though there should 
be some doubt of the son’s guilt, the father may 
fairly insist on his renouncing this girl as a con- 
dition of pleading with the authorities for his 
pardon, if there is a chance that his intercession 
might secure the pardon; or, whether he should 
demand a revision of the testimony at the risk 
of forfeiting the chances of a pardon, if this 
testimony after all should be found correct. And, 


INQUEST AND AVOWAL. 


191 


as it seems to me, the father, may, on the face of 
the case as it stands, reasonably suppose that 
his son is guilty.” 

“But I believe there is a sense of duty that 
guides honest and true men, who have a good 
purpose in view; and I cannot believe that an 
attempt to make this poor fellow enter 
upon such a compromise would be encouraged 
either by the authorities or by his father! — I 
believe there is justice yet to be had in the 
world, and I shall do whatever I can to get to 
the bottom of this affair. — If you think you can 
not help me more directly, you should at least 
be willing to inquire further into the past record 
of Beardslow. This might give us a chance 
to test his character and find out his real mo- 
tives, in pursuing Alvira with his addresses, and 
to prevent the success of any scheme he may 
have to injure Victor, who, as Alvira asserts, 
is innocent of the crime charged against him.” 

Froard gave her the promise that he would 
demand some explanation on this subject from 
Beardslow, and this seemed to satisfy her, and 
she withdrew, after exacting a promise from 
him to call at their home that evening, to report 
the result of his inquiries. 


192 


ALV1RA. 


In the meantime Lydia had gone to the house. 
She seemed to be in a state of confusion. Until 
that day she had not been conscious that she 
had ever been guilty of anything wrong; but 
the look of Isabella had filled her with dismay. 
She dreaded meeting her, and retired to her 
own room to consider a plan that Froard had 
proposed, and to decide whether she should 
meet him again that evening. 

It was not in her nature, generally, to be 
pensive, but she did in this case stop to think. 
There was a voice that bade her to consider. 
She tried to pray as she sat with her forehead 
resting on her hands that were folded on the 
table; but this could not restrain the tempestu- 
ous feelings that would rise again and again. 
— And why should harm result from what this 
strong feeling prompted? What else in life 
could indemnify her for the feelings that in- 
spired her at this moment! — 

There is generally no great difficulty for 
lovers to meet; and though jealous eyes were 
watching, Lydia eluded their vigilance. But 
her heart beat violently. She was flurried after 
her exertion to get to the place of meeting ; but 
thinking that she had escaped observation she 


INQUEST AND AVOWAL. 


193 


walked slower as she approached the bower, 
where she was to meet Froard, and being pro- 
tected by a high hedge, and reassured by the 
perfect quiet that reigned, she began to he some- 
what susceptible to the romantic impression of 
the incident. 

The scene was ideal for a trysting place. The 
gentle breeze caused the rustling of the leaves 
to sound like low music. The sky was lit only 
by the stars, and the air was filled with a deli- 
cate odor, all combining to furnish the appro- 
priate setting for a lover ’s paradise. 

As she approached the bower her heart beat 
quicker, which almost increased to wild agita- 
tion when she saw a figure darkening the ob- 
scure light through the opening of the arbor. — 
A whispered word, an extended hand, and she 
permitted herself to be gently drawn to a seat, 
surrounded by vine- and flower-clad trellises. 

For a moment they forgot the irksome task of 
planning. They were concealed in the deep 
shade, and dreaded to move, as though still 
fearing interruption. She kept apart, and yet 
it was a moment of delight. He preferred to 
sit quiet, as though wishing that time might 
stop. It could well be said that they only 


194 


ALV1RA. 


breathed for each other, for only their breathing 
was audible. 

But time was flying, and it was important 
that they should break the spell by words, plain 
words, that would express not their feelings, 
but their thoughts — their deliberate thoughts. 
Their voices were unsteady, but that weakness 
must be overcome by an effort, for they must 
speak in whispers, lest haply a jealous ear 
should catch the sound, and their plan should be 
frustrated. 

They whispered low, and still tremulously, 
but soon they had control of their voices. He 
seemed anxious and earnest. He told her of his 
youth, which had been wrecked by his being 
forced against his will to enter a monastic sem- 
inary where he was excluded from all pleasures 
of life and was envious even of the creatures 
that were subordinate to the lowest of mankind 
but enjoyed the liberty denied to him, and 
where he was withheld from intercourse with 
human beings who cherished sentiments like his 
own, and, instead, was linked with people who 
had no idea of the enjoyment which an active 
mind craves, and which makes life worth living. 

“It was like being in prison/ ’ continued he, 


INQUEST AND AVOWAL. 


195 


“the silence of the grave, the darkness of night, 
and when a stray beam of sunlight fell into my 
dreary cell it but reminded me of my irksome 
restraint. — Their faith is that if we are given 
the exercise of our own will, we shall but the 
sooner come under the influence of evil, because 
we do not aspire to their austerity of life and 
thought. ’ ’ 

“But might it not be better for us to post- 
pone this ride,” said she after a moment of 
silence, “and for you to speak to my father?” 

“No,” said he taking her hand and looking 
into her eyes, of which he could just see the 
bright beam; “we are forced into a fateful posi- 
tion. If I, myself, had not cast off the restraints 
that others claimed the right to impose on me, 
and sought protection under a social order 
where people are assured their natural rights, 
I would be held to a strict accountability, now, 
for sitting with you in the garden; — I would 
have to bear contumely, and even execration, 
and could in no way shield myself . 9 1 

There was more of this kind of argument 
used by him, evidently with convincing effect 
on her, until, with slow, lingering, cautious 
steps, they finally departed from the bower. 


196 


ALT IRA. 


He took her hand and pressed it, but this was 
only for a moment, and then he hastened to the 
street, and she turned her steps toward her 
home. 

While Isabella was waiting in the parlor for 
Froard to bring his report according to promise, 
she saw Lydia come in at the front door, through 
the hall, and glide up stairs ; but it was in vain 
that she watched for Mr. Froard. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE DREADED SUITOR. 

qn the day after Isabella ’s stratagem to clear 
up the mystery surrounding Victor’s case, 
Florence had received a letter from young St. 
Cyn, informing her that his departure would be 
delayed a week owing to his being indisposed; 
and she was surprised, therefore, very early 
on the following morning by the visit of a young 
man, who presented himself as Augustus St. 
Cyn, but who appeared rather ill at ease, as 
she thought. 

The fairness of his smooth face was relieved 
by a slight flush that lent a certain charm to it, 
and the traces of embarrassment gave way to 
an expression of trustfulness when he shook 
hands with the kind-hearted, beautiful girl; but 
his appearance was so far different from the im- 
pression she had received of the writer of the 
proposal, that a vague doubt rose in her, never- 
theless, whether it were St. Cyn. And she was 
197 


198 


ALVIRA. 


surprised and a tremor overcame her when sud- 
denly before she had resolved what she would 
say or do, the visitor was before her on his knees 
with folded hands looking up to her almost im- 
ploringly. 

What could all this mean? — This manifest em- 
barrassment! — this strange appearance of con- 
trition! this pleading look! — Would he sue for 
love? Or was it some deep woe that bore him 
down — that made this man, who represented 
himself as one of the greatest favorites of for- 
tune, appear as though he might be bearing the 
consciousness of a great load of misfortune or 
sin? 

Beyond a word of greeting, he had, as yet, 
said nothing. 

“Miss Conde,” said he at last in a low tone, 
‘ ‘ I know not how to address you ; but at the peril 
of offending, I must ask, what has fate in store 
for me?” 

These words recalled the letter of St. Cyn, 
and suggested the necessity of an answer as 
directly to the point as possible without fully 
betraying the nature of her feelings in regard 
to the proposal, which he possibly referred to. 
But what should that answer be? All the plans 


THE DREADED SUITOR. 


199 


she had made might be in one moment upset 
by this sudden arrival, if this should be young 
St. Cyn ; and what if it should not be ! 

Her plans had been based either on the co- 
operation of Woodson, or on her being safely 
away to Brunswick, when St. Cyn should arrive, 
and now she was suddenly asked to answer this 
vexatious question, without a chance to shield 
herself in any way against the sudden demand 
of the dreaded suitor, if this were he; and she 
could not, at that moment, think of anything 
that would not compromise her, or offend the 
man before her and rouse the ire of her father, 
if it really should be St. Cyn.— If she had not 
insisted on confronting him alone, her mother 
might be appealed to ; and even now, she thought 
of retiring to consult with her. But suddenly she 
thought of her remark to Woodson, concerning 
what she deemed the insincerity of the writer of 
that letter. 

“You will excuse me, sir,” she said coldly, 
“but I do not understand your meaning—” 

As if he had been impelled by a sudden 
thought, and without waiting for her to finish, 
he rose, and there was a change in him that 
made her resourceful of ideas for ending the 


200 


ALV1RA. 


interview. 

There was a brig in the harbor at that mo- 
ment, northward bound, which suggested the 
idea of the trip to Brunswick; and she thought 
she might, with some prospect of getting her 
father’s permission, propose this trip, and evade 
the necessity of giving the visitor an immediate 
answer. 

She had time to come to this conclusion before 
the visitor again spoke. 

“The fact is, Miss Conde,” said he, “that I 
do not, myself, quite understand the exact na- 
ture of the relation between us at this moment . 9 ’ 

“Indeed, I am quite at a loss to understand 
what your purpose may be.” 

“Then I must have been inapt in expressing 
myself, or there is some strange misunderstand- 
ing between us, otherwise.” 

“It seems but natural that this should be the 
case. The conditions have been such as to make 
it quite impossible that we should understand 
each other.” 

“I am sorry that you have taken this view and 
should be pleased to express it in this manner; 
and I think it might be for our mutual benefit 
if we could at least try to find some means of 


THE DREADED SUITOR. 


201 


coming to an understanding.” 

‘‘The circumstances may not be favorable for 
this, unless you intend remaining in our city 
for some time, as I am on the point of making 
a trip to Brunswick, which will probably take a 
week. ’ 9 

“My time is not so limited that this need be 
an obstacle, and I might await your return.” 

“But possibly the trip might take longer, as 
I shall have to await a chance for the return 
passage, which will depend on the shipping con- 
cerns between Brunswick and St. Augustine.” 

“Possibly special facilities might be obtained 
to insure your earlier return. I feel as though 
I were somehow entitled to the privilege of as- 
suring you as far as possible, without being ob- 
trusive, of my purpose to be accommodating; 
and you will probably excuse my anxiety — ” 

“Of course you are at liberty to await my 
return if you choose, but it might possibly take 
two weeks.” 

He suddenly looked into her eyes with a 
glance of special intensity; “are you particu- 
larly interested in prolonging your stay?” said 
he. 

She now reflected that in the worst event 


202 


ALVIRA. 


Woodson must be back within a week and that 
she ought to show some courtesy; and, in order 
to provide for the possibility that she might 
be really addressing a gentleman, she answered 
in the negative, adding that she merely wished 
to get some diversion, and would be glad to get 
back earlier, if she could find an opportunity. 

“ Possibly,’ ’ said he, “I might enable you to 
return earlier, if you would entrust yourself to 
my care.” 

She stood looking at him with an expression 
of doubt ; but, without waiting for her to answer, 
he continued: “with your permission I will call 
again. I thought it proper to announce my 
arrival to you personally, and suppose it is too 
early for me to expect to be entertained. ’ ’ 

Having so expressed himself, he made a bow 
preparatory to withdrawing. 

There seemed to her, now, an element of triv- 
iality, in this St. Cyn episode, inconsistent with 
the importance of the main subject involved; 
and the idea, of escaping the demand of this 
man by means of a trip to Brunswick, seemed 
unworthy of the sacredness of her right to de- 
cide this question for herself; and she deter- 
mined now, without recourse to any expedient 


THE DREADED SUITOR. 


203 


but the exercise of her will, to reject the ad- 
vances of this man. 

“One moment, if you please,” said she, “It 
was not mere equivocation that prompted me to 
make the remark about a misunderstanding. I 
think self-respect, as well as duty demands that 
I should tell you that I was not consulted in 
regard to the subject which you seem to refer to. 
I do not know what your position in regard to 
this may be; but I hope it will suffice to settle 
the matter between us, if I inform you that I 
cannot receive your visits. ’ ’ 

“The gentleman bowed with a mixture of 
dignity and confusion. 

i ‘ I should certainly be lacking in the instincts 
of a gentleman,” said he, “if it would require 
any further explanation, ’ ’ and having so ex- 
pressed himself he made another polite bow and 
withdrew. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


DEVISING A PLEASURE TRIP. 


** ELL?” said Froard in a tone of inter- 



rogation when Beardslow called on 


him in his office, on the morning of the arrival 
of St. Cyn. 

“Well?” answered Beardslow with a cheerful 
expression. 

“Tell me,” continued Froard with somewhat 
of a censorious tone, “what is this about your 
connection with the prosecution of Victor at 
St. Mark?” 

This simple question seemed to banish Beard- 
slow ’s cheerful spirits. 

‘ ‘ I don ’t know anything about that case, ’ ’ said 
he. 

“What!” exclaimed Froard, looking straight 
at him. He evidently was not convinced by his 
friend’s tone of indignation. 

“No, sir! I had nothing to do with his case.” 

“Have you seen Alvira lately?” said Froard, 
changing the subject rather abruptly. 


204 


DEVISING A PLEASURE TRIP. 


205 


“I have just been there.’ ’ 

“Have you had any lengthy interview with 
her?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ And do you think you have a chance of win- 
ning her favor?” 

“Yes, sir! If you had seen how she was 
affected by my arguments when I explained 
what I proposed to do for her, you would not 
ask this question. She was so affected that she 
could not speak — as though she were wholly 
overcome by her emotions. ’ 9 

“It oughtn’t be difficult for you to win the 
favor of a girl who is practically homeless and 
without means of support,” said Froard, “and 
I give you credit for the facility with which you 
have arranged this plan for extricating both 
yourself and her out of a disagreeable situation ; 
but nevertheless,” continued he somewhat skep- 
tically, “we must consider the chances that we 
may not be able to win back her property, and 
that she may not have been affected as you pre- 
sume she has been. And then there would be 
the other question to take into consideration, 
whether you really love this woman for her own 
sake? — It is not so easy as we generally think 


206 


ALV1RA. 


to decide even this question. We may be led 
for a moment to imagine that we are in love — 
when nothing* but fleeting impressions have 
stirred our feelings.” 

4 ‘You may be qualified to speak for yourself 
on this point; but that gives you no right to 
impute the same instability to me.” 

“Did you say,” continued Froard, somewhat 
in a manner as though he were cross-examining 
a witness, “that Victor’s father was opposed to 
his paying attention to Alvira?” 

“Yes. His father denounced her as the cause 
of all his troubles ; and I think it was his inten- 
tion to make this the condition of using his in- 
fluence to have him released. ’ ’ 

“Does she know of his father’s prejudice 
against her!” 

“Yes.” 

“Did she herself tell you of it?” 

“No.” 

‘And how did you find out his father’s senti- 
ments on the subject?” 

“I don’t know that I am under any obliga- 
tions to tell that.” 

Froard looked at him a moment with inde- 
cision. He possibly was weighing the risk he 


DEVISING A PLEASURE TRIP. 


207 


would take, in proceeding in his plans with him. 
But he was committed to make the trip to the 
Mission House, by a proposition he had made to 
Lydia, as well as to Beardslow. 

1 1 And do you think you can persuade her to go 
with you?” 

“Yes.” 

i ‘ Circumstances compel me to hasten the exe- 
cution of my plan, and I propose to take the 
ride to Piccolata this evening, instead of next 
week. Do you think you can induce her to go 
along today?” 

“I will call on her again, and find out.” 

“Well, what if I order the carriage to be 
ready and meet you at half-past nine o’clock 
before the house? If you are then successful we 
may proceed together to the Plaza, where I will 
order the carriage to wait. ’ ’ 

“Very well, I’ll see her again, and make the 
proposition. I have hinted at it already, and 
though she was reluctant at first, I do not doubt 
that I can induce her to go with us.” — 

On the afternoon of the same day, Lydia 
called on Alvira; “What was in that letter the 
stranger left for you?” said she. 

“It was a request to grant him an interview 


208 


ALVIRA. 


this afternoon.” 

“And will yon grant liis request!” 

“I am uncertain what to do, as I cannot 
imagine what his purpose may be.” 

“Did he meet you anywhere; or have you any 
idea what he wants ! ’ ’ 

“No, I have not. — How did he come to give 
you this letter for me!” 

“I accidentally met him when he came to 
leave it.” 

“I must say that I cannot quite understand 
the ways of these men. Early this morning, 
when I came from church, some one overtook 
me and walked at my side. I walked slower to 
let him pass, and he then also walked slower 
and began to speak to me. ’ ’ 

“Who was it!” 

“I do not know, nor can I imagine what was 
meant. I was so agitated that I did not under- 
stand what was said.” 

“Some of the men of the garrison are very 
bold,”— 

Lydia was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Who is it!” said she, when Alvira had gone 
to the door and partly opened it. 

“St. Cyn,” said Alvira, coming back and 


DEVISING A PLEASURE TRIP. 


209 


making the announcement in a low tone. He 
wants to speak to me upon an important matter, 
he says.” 

Lydia hereupon retired to the adjoining 
room, and Alvira again advanced to the door, 
which she had not closed, and requested the vis- 
itor to enter. 

She invited him to take a seat, but he remained 
standing after he had advanced only a few steps, 
and kept on his hat, which had a broad brim and 
made his face look dark. 

“I took the liberty,” said he in a subdued 
tone, “ to leave a few lines for you this morn- 
ing.” 

“Yes, I received your note. — Have you any 
communication of special importance for me?” 

“I wished to speak to you upon a subject, 
which I was told was of some interest to you, 
that is — ” 

The visitor here lowered his voice, and it 
seemed as though Alvira were full of consterna- 
tion at what he next communicated; and during 
the conversation that ensued it seemed as if St. 
Cyn repeatedly made an entreaty, and that Al- 
vira, throughout, listened to his low, whispered 
remarks with very serious attention, without, 


210 


ALVIRA. 


however, making any response. But at last the 
visitor was impelled to speak in more audible 
tones. 

4 4 Do you distrust me ? ’ ’• — 

Alvira stood in an attitude, as if undecided 
what to answer. 

“Is it possible that you believe I am trying 
to practice a deception?” continued the visitor. 

“But why will you not try to convince her?” 

“I have no doubt I could find a way to con- 
vince her, and — ” 

At that moment there was a knock at the inner 
door and Lydia returned, whereupon they con- 
tinued their conversation a few moments longer 
in a subdued tone, until the visitor finally took 
his leave. — 

4 4 What has he been telling you ? ’ ’ 

4 4 He is the one that spoke to me on the street, 
— but his intention was a good one. — He said 
he had seen me in church, and was so affected 
by my devotion that it touched his heart, and 
revived his confidence in mankind after he had 
been cast down by the ungracious reception of 
Miss Conde.” 

4 4 And was that his only purpose in calling on 
you ? 5 ’ 


DEVISING A PLEASURE TRIP. 


211 


“No. He has spoken very earnest words to 
me, not only to express his regard for the devout 
religious sentiments we cherish, hut also to 
show the contrast in those who are insincere; 
and I think it my duty, as one to whom you have 
been very kind, and who is equally bound to 
your family, to warn you, lest you should suffer 
a disappointment, if you take this ride with 
Froard. His admonitions seemed to me espe- 
cially timely in view of the proposed trip to 
Picolata. I have known sorrow, suffering and 
disappointments from youth, and I am inured 
to them; but what I have heard this day has 
added much to my experience of the past, and 
you must not blame me if I warn you against 
what I think might be a great mistake. — You 
can rest assured that I speak with the best war- 
rant, when I tell you that Froard may not be 
trustworthy, nor his love disinterested. You 
are, now, as I was two years ago, when for a 
short space the world looked bright to me, and 
I was convinced that happiness awaited me; 
and I believe as great a disappointment may 
await you now, as I experienced. I might have 
hesitated to tell you this, but think myself 
justified in doing so, after hearing what I did 


212 


ALVIRA. 


just now and what your own sister has confided 
to me.” 

“My sister’s judgment is warped by an un- 
reasonable feeling of resentment for an imag- 
inary slight. And as to disinterested love, I 
do not think that exists anywhere, or that, if it 
did, it would be natural. If you would ask me 
to love one that does not love me, which I sup- 
pose you might call disinterested love, I should 
have to reject your advice. But as we are even 
expected to love our enemies, it cannot be far 
wrong if I love one who might possibly, as you 
say, make me unhappy in the future. — It is in 
the faith that he loves me now, that I will cling 
to him; what may happen when he quits loving 
me, I do not care to find out. And as to this 
man who seems to have made you suspicious of 
others, I am told he is suspected himself of 
being an impostor. — And I think that his whole 
conduct is open to censure. — ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY. 

JT was apparent from the manner of Alvira, 
that the visit of St. Cyn had deeply agitated 
her feelings. After Lydia had departed, and 
while the shades of the setting sun darkened the 
room, she sat at a table with her forehead rest- 
ing on the palms of her hands, evidently in deep 
thought, until she was disturbed by seeing the 
figure of a man approaching from the street. 

She rose suddenly, and for a moment held the 
knob of the door leading into the hall, as if to 
withdraw, but changing her mind, she turned 
and resumed her seat. 

It was Beardslow, and, as usual, he entered 
through the outer door, taking off his hat with 
a slight bow. 

There was some analogy between the charac- 
ter of this man and the adventurers who had 
come centuries before him with their low esti- 
mate of the aborigines, the difference being that 

213 


214 


ALV1RA. 


he was partly the product of a nation with more 
considerate views than his Spanish ancestry. 
But he had come directly from association with 
the trained matadores, to a class whom he at 
best considered bunglers in the art of subju- 
gating their inferiors, and he had come with 
the conceit of possessing attributes that would 
justify the purpose of making these novices 
serve as subjects for his plans. 

But he had been gradually sobered, until there 
were moments when he felt forlorn, and was 
even occasionally overcome with a feeling of 
insignificance, at the stern facts that confronted 
him, though he was not lacking in resources 
with which to revive his ambitious feelings. 

After his researches in the official records con- 
cerning Alvira’s patrimony, he had felt elated, 
but now he seemed again to be hesitant; and 
when she rose and met him with the question, 
4 ‘What is it you wish?” there was nothing per- 
ceptible in him of the assurance with which he 
had responded to Froard’s sudden proposition, 
that he should invite her to take the ride to Pic- 
olata that evening. 

“I have information of great importance for 
you,” said he; with a tone, however, that was 


DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY. 


215 


devoid of confidence. 

“I cannot conceive of anything that could be 
of such importance to me just now,” said she 
stepping back and taking hold of the door, as 
if with the purpose of shortening the interview. 

“What have I been guilty of since last I saw 
you ? ’ ’ inquired he with an attempt at a familiar 
tone of expostulation. — “I know,” continued he 
with an earnest tone of protest, “that I have my 
faults. You see before you one, who has all his 
life suffered from slights, and whose heart nat- 
urally turns against every one that betrays the 
least inimical design, because he has found ene- 
mies wherever he turned and in the bitterness 
of his feelings may have been guilty of some 
mistakes; but have you not yourself had proof 
how far others are from being perfect? — ” 

He paused a moment as though awaiting a 
response from her, but she stood immovable 
and silent, with her eyes turned down, and he 
continued; “Can you imagine what the effect 
of all this must have been on one who had hoped 
to enter upon a bright career, such as is sup- 
posed to be open to a gentleman’s son?— As an 
exile, a wanderer among strangers, with not one 
soul to stand between me and despair, I saw 


216 


ALVIRA. 


you, and I felt as though you were sent from 
heaven to reawaken hope in me, only again to 
be checked in my endeavor to raise myself, when 
another stepped in between us with his haughty 
air of superiority to reprove me as though I 
were guilty of a crime. — ” 

He again paused; and after a moment she 
turned to him. “I will not,” said she with an 
earnest tone, “ express what I was first impelled 
to say and will rather follow a kinder impulse 
which sympathy prompts. My own condition is 
too sad that I should judge harshly the errors 
of anyone. — After what has been inflicted on me 
for my sins, it almost seems impossible that evil 
alone can have actuated you. I have not the 
heart to add the slightest burden to the load of 
anyone who suffers in anyway. — But could you, 
if you have suffered wrong, find relief in doing 
wrong yourself? — Could you expect that I 
should show you particular favor — I who dare 
not hope for happiness myself, because all those 
have suffered who were akin to me and who 
were kind to me? — Look into your own heart 
and see whether you can find anything in it 
that justifies a claim for happiness or anything 
but what calls for penance and — forgiveness? 


DIFFICULTIES IN THE WA Y. 


217 


I expect no happiness on earth —I have been 
unhappy too long, — I have experienced in the 
past nothing but unhappiness, yet I do not feel 
as though I should cry out for a sacrifice to 
those who are sufferers themselves !” 

“But you have suffered at the hands of those 
against whom I also make complaint ; it was by 
their fault that you were left to perish in the 
swamps; and would you rather cling to one of 
them than be assured of the constant devotion 
of one who promises to bring relief to you, and 
who is willing to die for you, if necessary ?” 

“You are mistaken. I have not sought the 
favor of the enemies of my father.” 

“I may be mistaken, but you may be too. — 
Look back and consider what your father’s pros- 
pects — what your prospects were, when these 
men robbed you of all your fortune, and tell 
me whether you can have faith in any one of 
them, while you condemn to torture one who did 
nothing to cause your misfortune? — who did 
what was in his power to avert it?” 

He approached closer while so expressing 
himself, evidently moved to make a further 
eager appeal. 

“Stay where you are!” said she, “I cannot 


218 


ALV1RA. 


listen to you ! I have borne with your endeavors 
to take advantage of my unfortunate condition, 
but you have intruded on my privacy as if I 
were entirely at your mercy ! * ’ 

He was not so blinded by conceit, but that he 
could perceive that he, himself, must be at fault ; 
and though he still reached out to seek that on 
which he might lay the blame for his troubles, 
he could see no prospect of relieving his heart 
of the torturing feeling of disappointment, with 
which he was overcome. 

4 ‘If a man is down,” he muttered, “his case 
is hopeless! — It might have been better to act 
the slave and take the little favors thrown out, 
as to a beggar! — But that would require a 
steady determination to submit to everything 
and suffer forever, to yield to the lowest, — in 
all the world to be the lowest! — ” 

For a moment Alvira was perplexed. So far 
she had no positive evidence of any crime that 
could be directly charged against him, except 
the shot he had fired at Victor. 

“You have misunderstood me,” continued he ; 
“I have not sought to take advantage of your 
unfortunate condition. I am too unfortunate 
myself to think of such a thing. You, at least, 


DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY. 


219 


are an object of some affection, while my anxi- 
ety to gain your favor may be evidence, alas! 
that I am not. I stand alone, as in a wilderness, 
in this vast country, and it is therefore that I ap- 
peal to your kindness. I have nothing to sustain 
me — not the assurance even of one friend. It 
was my cruel fate to be filled with an unquench- 
able ambition from my youth by the constant 
sight of others with superior advantages, which 
all seemed absolutely denied me, though I 
tried, ever so hard, to emulate them in all that 
was praised as virtue.’ ’ 

He awaited an answer; but she remained 
silent. 

“It requires only a moral support,” contin- 
ued he, “one word from you will be sufficient to 
open prospects that might put into the shade 
the fortune of those who are so proud. You 
have been wrongfully deprived of a great estate, 
and I have found means by which it can be 
restored to you. Your father’s property was 
wrongfully confiscated. It can be recovered by 
you, and its value will increase hundredfold 
when the Indians are removed to their new 
reservations !” 

“What is your plan,” said she at last, with 


220 


ALVIRA . 


some hesitation. 

“I have been a homeless, harassed wanderer 
for years, and I am willing to devote my life to 
you, if you will hut give me one sign, such as 
a kind look, or one word, to assure me that you 
have been touched by the story of my misfor- 
tunes, — a sign of that sympathy at least that 
even the criminal rouses in the stranger who 
witnesses his execution. — Give me but one sign 
that you are touched by my suffering, and it 
will have the power to dispel the terrible 
thoughts of the future that oppress me, and may 
insure your happiness. ’ ’ 

“How?” 

“If you promise to share my lot with me.” — 

“Do you imagine that one moment of contri- 
tion, even if sincere, can be atonement for all 
your faults! — How can you, of all men, ap- 
proach me with such a plea?” 

The next instant she stepped back and closed 
the door. 





GIVE ME BUT ONE SIGN THAT YOU ARE TOUCHED BY MY 

SUFFERING” 




CHAPTER XXV. 


THE ELOPEMENT. 

TT had been impossible for Beardslow to yield 
to the evidence contained in Alvira’s ex- 
pressions. He had a momentary gleam of rea- 
son, but it was immediately overcome by a 
sudden access of passion. 

He remained near the premises, and, while 
eagerly watching the house, he saw the tall fig- 
ure of a man approach from the rear of the gar- 
den, and this circumstance from that time en- 
gaged his whole attention. 

The man stood still, as if considering whether 
it were advisable to approach nearer, and then 
seemed to summon courage to advance, just as 
Beardslow, eagerly leaning forward, prepared 
to confront him, and — discovered that it was 
Froard. — The two began to converse in a low 
tone. 

“What makes you so determined on that?” 
said Froard at last, “why wouldn’t it do to 

221 


222 


ALVIRA. 


carry out our plan later, rather than run such a 
risk?” 

“Because it can’t be done. She discouraged 
my addresses, I know that he met her and cor- 
responded with her, — visited her ; and from her 
manner it is evident that she has listened to his 
flatteries, and I see no chance to carry out my 
plan except as I now propose. ’ ’ 

4 4 But this scheme might turn out to be a very 
serious matter ! ’ ’ 

“I don’t expect any great difficulty from that. 
Affairs are in such a state here that a thing of 
that kind will not be closely inquired into.” 

“But I cannot possibly sanction such a 
scheme. ’ ’ 

“You can do as you please about that, but I 
will carry out my purpose.” 

Froard was surprised at this change in the 
aspect of Beardslow’s affairs, and in his temper. 
But even then he did not know the full extent of 
his friend’s discomfiture. He tried to control 
his own feelings, or to disguise them under cover 
of expressions intended to dissuade the irate 
man from his purpose. 

“I think it would be a great mistake,” said 
he, “to resort to a plan that would be attended 


THE ELOPEMENT. 


223 


with so much danger.” 

“ I do not ask you to participate in my plan. ’ ’ 

“But I would be compromised even if you 
alone would engage in it, as I vouched for you 
and will be held responsible for your acts. And 
you should consider that there was no reason 
for me to enter into any plan with you, except 
as an accommodation to you, while the attempt 
to carry out such a plan as you now propose, 
must bring great trouble if not downright dis- 
aster to both of us, if even you could carry it 
out; and I cannot understand what motive you 
have to undertake it. It would be far better to 
postpone the trip, if you think you could per- 
suade her to listen to you again.” 

“That may seem very plausible to you; but 
it is too evident to me that in my case some im- 
mediate step is necessary.” 

‘ ‘ I am sure you cannot accomplish your pres- 
ent purpose, judging by your own description 
of your plan, but will, instead, blast not only all 
your prospects, but also mine.” 

“It will blast no prospects of mine, because 
this is the only chance left for me. Moreover, 
there ’s no time now to enter into a long debate 
about it. I think I have no chance but to carry 


224 


ALVIRA. 


out my plan, and I am determined to carry it 
out, now.” 

“I will go in and ask Lydia what Alvira’s 
feelings in the matter are. She is under obli- 
gations to Lydia, who has a right to demand 
an explanation from her.” 

Froard awaited an answer, but Beardslow, 
with his gaze steadily fixed on the house, seemed 
to pay no attention to the remark. 

“What do you say?” said Froard. 

“I should think, if you have concluded to 
postpone your trip, your policy would be to 
keep away.” 

“I will not keep away; I want an explanation 
in plain words what you intend doing here . ’ 9 

Beardslow turned about to face him, with a 
fierce look. 

“I give you fair warning,” said he “not to 
molest me.” 

As Beardslow was evidently in a reckless 
mood, Froard thought it best not to provoke 
him any further. But it was urgent that he 
should see Lydia, though their plan might be 
frustrated, and he thought it advisable to pacify 
him. 

“What did she say?” said he in a conciliatory 


THE ELOPEMENT . 


225 


tone. 

“It is impossible for me to give any further 
explanation.” 

“But you cannot seriously entertain an idea 
of trying to carry out such a purpose. It would 
mean everlasting ruin and disgrace for you, and 
would endanger my position here. — You could 
not expect me to help you, and I suppose have 
no one else to depend on?” 

“It will be ruin for me just the same, if I give 
up my claim. I think that if I succeed I may 
overcome her hesitation, while if I do not, it will 
sever the last tie that binds me to life.” 

“You are under a strange delusion. — Such 
schemes are all fraught with trouble in the end. 
I would advise you to abandon all thoughts of 
her for the present, and to continue steadily with 
your plan of getting advancement here. More- 
over, this trouble, at present, may be due to a 
momentary freak of her’s to test your feelings 
or your patience; and you may have some fur- 
ther chance if you abide the time. ’ * 

“I have only this one chance, and for me to 
fail in that means everlasting trouble in the 
future ; while if I succeed, it may mean good for- 
tune, the same as success in the struggle for 


226 


ALVIRA . 


supremacy in any contest. He lias evidently 
by unfair means ingratiated himself into her 
favor, and I will have the moral and the legal 
right to frustrate his scheme and to use force, 
if necessary, to prevent his carrying her off.” 

Froard made no further reply to this than to 
intimate that he would, under these conditions, 
have to postpone his affair; and he withdrew 
in the direction from where he had come. But 
he availed himself of the shrubbery to approach 
the house, from the other side, with a view of 
attracting Lydia’s attention and gaining admit- 
tance, without being seen by Beardslow, whom 
he considered capable of any desperate act. 

The thought flashed across his mind that he 
might deliver Beardslow into the hands of 
justice. — But this might involve him in an un- 
pleasant scandal, and he finally resigned himself 
to the idea that somehow Beardslow ’s purpose 
might be frustrated by others, and that his own 
trip with Lydia might be postponed, and he 
made this latter proposition to her. 

“Oh,” responded she, “if you only knew what 
I had to endure in the last few days ! — Isabella 
had been watching us while we sat on the bench 
and walked in the garden. ’ ’ 


TIIE ELOPEMENT . 


227 


4 4 But could you not bear it a few days longer ? 
I have been put into a bad dilemma by my good- 
natured desire to help this man, who has turned 
out to be a desperate character. He has sworn 
to be revenged for an interference in his affair 
by this St. Cyn, who, it seems has conceived a 
fantastic passion for Alvira after seeing her 
worshipping at early mass; and it will be dan- 
gerous for us to try to carry out our plan, as 
he is watching outside and will no doubt raise 
a disturbance if any one attempts to leave the 
house. He is armed and boasts of being vested 
with power to exert a certain authority in his 
capacity as a coast guard. And even if we 
could carry out our plan, there would seem to 
be some collusion between me and him, and I 
would be compromised if he should carry out 
his threats, against this stranger; while if we 
should go out and be detected by him, he might 
be capable of venting his ire on us. He has 
placed himself outside the pale of society, and 
is reckless of all consequences !’ ’ 

“I can understand how he feels. You see a 
different woman before you, now, than when 
we parted in the arbor. I am prepared to meet 
death, if necessary, to let fate decide whether 


228 


ALV1RA. 


wliat we are doing is right or wrong.” 

They continued to debate the subject in a low 
tone; but Lydia’s will prevailed, and after a 
few moments they emerged, and passed through 
the garden, on the side opposite to that where 
Beardslow was watching. 

It was a night as bright as that on which 
these two had met in the arbor, where they had 
made arrangements for the ride they now in- 
tended taking. The starry heaven, with the 
addition of moonlight, the mild breeze, the odor 
of flowers, and the charming mixture of light 
and shade among the trees and shrubbery, of- 
fered the appropriate setting for a romantic 
adventure. Peace and serenity reigned, as they 
proceeded toward the gate through which they 
were to pass into the street, where a carriage 
could be seen standing in the distance; but their 
feelings were different — a stern reality con- 
fronted them. 

They had reached the carriage and entered, 
and Froard had taken the reins in his hands, 
when suddenly a hoarse voice was heard with 
the command, to halt. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE CATASTASIS. 

you not” said St. Cyn, who had again 
called on Alvira, “ dread the prospect 
of being homeless V 

“I have gone through worse experience than 
that after I had just been shown the gates of 
paradise open and had been led to believe that 
I should have a place in it. I was left among 
people, who were pursued like wild animals, and 
saw them scattered in the wind, and found my- 
self alone in the wilderness.” 

“Is it possible that you have suffered this!” 

“One of my father’s servants tried to rescue 
me by rowing me across the river. I succeeded, 
by this means, to escape; but when w T e had 
reached the opposite shore, he was killed by a 
bullet from the pursuers, and I was left alone 
to seek shelter and consolation wherever I could 
find it.” 

“But they did not class you with those who 
229 


230 


ALVIRA. 


were driven into the swamps, and you did not 
class yourself with them!” 

“Do you think that I had lost all sympathy 
with those people, whose defenders had suffered 
the fate of my father, and had been his friends? 
You would not ask that question if you had 
known them and their sufferings as I did, — if 
you had felt, yourself, what it is to pass nights 
and days in the condition, in which these chil- 
dren and women were placed. — Do you think it 
was their natural life, always to be driven from 
place to place, until they had to live like hunted 
animals in the swamps; and do you think this 
would have no effect on one who herself did not 
know what her fate would be?” 

“No. But you can set such thoughts aside 
now. Even among the highest there are many 
who have to undergo similar experiences. It 
is the doom of thousands. We need not casti- 
gate ourselves merely because others suffer mis- 
fortune ! You may be rewarded for the suffer- 
ing you have undergone. You are far from those 
people, in nature as in spirit. They probably 
now never think of you, as you do of them. They 
cannot raise themselves out of the torpor in 
which suffering is forgotten. — You can be as- 


THE CAT A STASIS. 


231 


sured that there is no taint in suffering, itself, 
and that grace and virtue are not bestowed to 
be wasted in such a forlorn condition as you are 
in now.” 

“But it cannot be true,” said she, “it seems 
like a dream, — it must be a delusion! There is 
too much evidence of the past to prove that I 
shall again awake to the real condition of un- 
happiness, to which I have been horn ! ’ ’ 

“No one can be assured of happiness. In 
spite of the prestige of my name, a single word 
of distrust was enough to dispel the halo with 
which I imagined myself surrounded when I 
came here. — That proves the value of wealth, 
and I am prepared to renounce it, if necessary. 
I believe that self denial is the condition on 
which we can enjoy the greatest blessings of life, 
if we do but exercise our intelligence as we 
should. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But do you take into consideration that I am 
the daughter of a man who died the death of a 
felon !” 

‘ ‘ I take no account of such superstition, which 
denies mankind the right to see that deepest 
significance of life and eternity, which true love 
alone reveals to us.” 


232 


ALVIRA. 


“I have had such assurances, and I know 
what follows. I was wrought upon by such 
words, and it was but a moment afterward when 
I got the assurance that I was abandoned.” 

“But, still, this cannot impair the power of 
love ultimately to save us from despair. Hun- 
dred reasons may be given to prove love incon- 
sistent with law, duty, prudence, pride, pro- 
priety or expedience, and still it is the highest 
law to us. — Nothing can have terror for me 
hereafter, if you refuse to come with me!” 

He drew her to him as he spoke these last 
words, and, as she did not resist, he took her 
into his arms, where he held her for a moment. 
She responded with a sigh, and slowly wound 
herself out of his embrace; but she had not dis- 
couraged him, and he led her, unresisting, into 
the garden. 

As they were on the point of stepping out 
from under the high myrtle hedges that lined 
the walk, they saw a man running toward the 
street, and they immediately withdrew to the 
shelter of the hedges. 

The next moment a carriage was seen ap- 
proaching, and suddenly it came to a halt. They 
walked on, protected from view by the hedges, 


THE CATASTASIS. 


23; 


toward the fort. They heard the sound of voices 
in animated discussion, proceeding from the 
place where the carriage had stopped. The dis- 
cussion grew loud and angry, there was the re- 
port of a gun-shot, and shortly afterward they 
saw the team dashing toward them. At the 
next crossing the team had overtaken them, and 
it continued on its course at a furious speed. 

Alvira thought she had recognized Lydia in 
the carriage, and, thinking her friend was in 
imminent danger, she started as if to hurry after 
the carriage. But the frightened horses had so 
far increased the distance between them that it 
was useless to try to overtake them. — They con- 
tinued on, under cover of the trees and hedges 
that lined the street and the road that formed 
its continuation, until they reached a wood be- 
low the fort. 

This wood was rendered dark by the dense 
growth of trees, the branches of which were all 
interwoven with vines of climbing plants. There 
was a thick undergrowth that added to intensify 
the darkness, while a shallow, winding swamp, 
thickly covered with liliaceous plants, made 
progress so difficult that Alvira became puzzled. 
The atmosphere was almost oppressive with 


234 


ALVIRA. 


the odor of some flower that seemed to stupefy 
the senses. In some of the boughs of the trees, 
she noticed the dark forms of vultures and owls, 
and the only sound she heard, except that caused 
by the rustling of fallen leaves as they cau- 
tiously, silently picked their way, was the occa- 
sional moan of the accipitrine fowl, and the low 
soughing of the wind as it passed through the 
closely woven thicket. 

At last her escort stopped and seemed 
puzzled. He looked through the openings in the 
dense thicket in different directions to discover 
which way they should proceed. The fort was 
visible in the distance, with one solitary light. 
They could see the shimmer of the Matanzas 
River and the dark shadows of Anastasia Island, 
where the Huguenots had been slaughtered by 
order of Pedro Menendez. Alvira had heard the 
most fantastic stories founded on these tragic 
occurrences and accepted with implicit faith by 
the common people, and they seemed natural 
and plausible to her, now, while alone with her 
silent companion in this gloomy wood near the 
hour of midnight, following him on the assur- 
ance that all doubt would be dispelled. She 
thought of Lydia’s expression of faith and hope 


THE CATASTASIS. 


235 


to excuse her love for one whose character was 
so doubtful; she was appalled at the danger 
threatening the inmates of the carriage, and she 
pictured to herself a scene of terrible disaster; 
and everything combined to fill her with distrust 
and fear. 

Lydia, with all her thoughtlessness, had been 
kind to her, and possibly she owed whatever of 
fair fortune she had yet enjoyed to this poor 
girl, who might at that moment be lying 
mangled on the road or possibly just so much 
hurt as to be conscious of excruciating suffer- 
ing; and this idea together with the thought of 
the harsh judgment of the world of such acts of 
indiscretion as theirs, now struck her with awful 
force. — Had she not been intimately connected 
with the elopement of Lydia, in encouraging 
this man to persist in his secret visits, in desert- 
ing this home in showing herself so inconsider- 
ate toward her benefactors, not thoughtlessly, 
but after intimating to Lydia that such a course 
was wrong? — Could she ever feel satisfied with 
this burden on her heart? 

They turned south again after emerging from 
the wood, toward the place where the hull of a 
vessel was indistinctly visible, and they had ar- 


236 


ALVIRA. 


rived within about fifty yards of it, when she 
was startled by the sight of dark figures moving 
about, and heard low talking. For a moment 
they halted, and gazed through the darkness and 
listened to the muttered expressions of the men. 
She distinguished something like a wreck on the 
roadside. She saw the dark figures of men who, 
with the aid of the dim light of a lantern, were 
examining the face of a prostrate human form in 
the middle of the road. She distinguished that 
it was a woman. One of the men had knelt down 
to examine the face and lift one arm. They then 
carefully raised the prostrate form and slowly 
bore it away. She could not doubt that it was 
Lydia. She felt impelled to go where they had, 
for a moment, deposited the victim on the 
ground; but her companion urged her forward, 
toward the vessel. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A DENOUEMENT. 

ARLY on the following morning there were 
rumors afloat of the disappearance of 
Lydia and Alvira, and of St. Cyn and Froard. 
And later came a report of a serious accident 
to Lydia and Froard. 

Florence’s room was on the second floor of the 
Conde home, fronting on a veranda to which 
a number of magnolias, tulip-trees, and various 
fragrant flowers had lately been brought from 
the conservatory, owing to the exceptionally 
mild weather. There was a door leading to the 
veranda, and, after she had heard of these re- 
ports, Florence took a seat near it to look out 
upon her flowers and the neighboring gardens, 
while she thought of the strange rumors con- 
cerning the girls, and then of Harry and where 
he might be. At some times, during the last few 
days, Woodson had seemed so far away as to 
be almost lost to her; and the episode of the 
237 


238 


ALVIRA. 


stranger and Alvira, and of Froard and Lydia, 
somehow, brought the dangers of Woodson’s 
lonesome ride more vividly to her mind. She 
chided herself for having always thought of the 
risks she) was exposed to, without any serious 
thought of the dangers that might lurk for him 
during these many days and nights on the road, 
each with its attendant hardships and perils. 
What if he should have been waylaid as so many 
others had been! — And again, thoughts of the 
mysterious stranger forced themselves on her. 
Was he really, as her father had conjectured, an 
impostor? Or was he St. Cyn? This question 
now seemed almost a matter of life and death 
to her. 

At that moment she heard somebody open the 
gate and enter at the front door. She rose, and 
after hurrying down stairs, into the vestibule, 
was met by a boy with a letter bearing the plain 
address : ‘ ‘ Captain Woodson. ’ ’ 

It bore no postmark, and she asked the boy, 
who had given it to him. 

'‘A man came to our house late last night and 
left it, requesting us to deliver it here this morn- 
ing.’ ’ 

“Did he say it was urgent?” 


1 DENOUEMENT. 


239 


“No.” 

“What kind of man was lie!” 

“My father received it, and it was so dark 
that he could not see him well.” 

The boy said he was from the coast, two miles 
below the fort. 

After he had departed, Florence looked at the 
address a long time as though, she might get 
some indication from that, who the writer was; 
but she could not guess, who, at that point, 
might resort to this means to communicate with 
Woodson, and she thought of consulting her 
parents about the letter, but hesitated. In her 
state of uncertainty she apprehended that the 
letter might concern her as much as Harry, and 
that it might not be advisable to let her parents 
know the contents; and, concluding to withhold 
all knowledge of it from them, she hurried back 
to her room and stowed it away among her own 
letters, hoping that Harry might soon return 
to relieve her conscience of the thought that she 
was doing something which might possibly jus- 
tify a charge of prevarication against her. 

She expected and ardently hoped that Wood- 
son might return any day, nay any moment. 
When she had heard of the rumor about the 


240 


ALVIRA. 


stranger abducting Alvira, her first thought was 
that he surely was an impostor, and, that she 
would have to go through all that worry again 
with the real St. Cyn ; and the thought now came 
that the letter might contain some revelation 
concerning the act of violence by which Lydia 
and Froard had suffered, neither of whom were 
in a condition to explain what had happened. — 
As Beardslow had also disappeared, the infer- 
ence was natural that either he or the stranger 
must have caused this disaster, and she began to 
feel as though she, herself, was now implicated 
in the matter, and might be culpable for frus- 
trating the ends of justice in concealing this let- 
ter. 

Meanwhile, her father and her mother showed 
signs of anxiety about the strange developments 
concerning St. Cyn, and the prolonged absence 
and silence of Woodson, who had not once writ- 
ten since his departure; and all began to look 
serious and uneasy, and to be silent and de- 
jected. 

At last, on the third day after the disaster, 
Florence could no longer withstand the contin- 
ued chiding of her conscience, and revealed to 
her mother the secret of the letter, with the in- 


A DENOUEMENT. 


241 


quiry whether it would be advisable to open it ; 
and Mrs. Conde, after some consideration, had 
concluded that she would at least consult her 
husband about it. But before they had fully 
made up their mind on this point, they were sur- 
prised by the sudden entrance of Woodson him- 
self. 

He looked worn out and dejected, and flung 
himself into a chair immediately after going 
through the formality of a superficial greeting. 

“Well, well!” was the first exclamation of 
Mrs. Conde after recovering from the mo- 
mentary surprise, “at last.” 

Close after Woodson, Mr. Conde had entered 
and now seemed overcome with joy at his re- 
turn. 

Woodson had scarcely touched Florence’s 
hand in the greeting. 

Florence looked searehingly into his eyes. 

“Have you heard about the trick played on 
us!” asked Mr. Conde. 

“No, what was that!” rejoined Woodson. 

The Condes exchanged significant glances. 

Florence approached her mother and spoke 
a few words to her in a low tone. 

“0, yes,” said Mrs. Conde taking out the let- 


242 


ALVIRA 


ter, which she had put into her pocket, and hand- 
ing it to Woodson, “here is a letter for you.” 

Woodson looked at the address and at once 
opened it, whereupon he glanced at the signa- 
ture, and then read the letter. It was a long 
one, and while he read it the expression on his 
face gradually changed from grave to gay, until 
at last, when he came to the end, he burst out 
in laughter and suddenly rose. 

4 ‘Why!” exclaimed he, “this letter is from 
St. Cyn!” 

“From whom?” demanded Mr. Conde, with 
an expression of perplexity. 

“From Augustus Charles Victor St. Cyn, my 
okl friend and comrade during the glorious days 
of Mobile, Pensacola, and New Orleans. He 
informs me that Alvira is to accompany him to 
New Orleans in his yacht.” 

“Your comrade, St. Cyn? — Did you know St. 
Cyn?” 

“I knew him by the name of Charles Victor, 
until a week ago. He was in love with Miss 
Renfrow. He knew she was here, and upon re- 
ceiving the intimation that his suit was not 
acceptable to Florence, he decided to take Alvira 
with him. I had received a letter from my 


A DENOUEMENT. 


243 


friend, Harriot soon after Florence received 
that proposal and he urged me to come to New 
Orleans. It made an impression as though there 
were some great danger impending for Victor, 
and I determined to go at once. When I arrived, 
I was informed by Marriot that Victor was iden- 
tical with St. Cyn, and that one of the witnesses 
against him had revealed facts, concerning the 
evidence, which insured his release ; but that, at 
his father’s urgent request, he had, before learn- 
ing this, agreed to renounce Alvira because she 
seemed to have renounced him; and that, to 
avoid a sensation^ they had postponed the reve- 
lation of all this to a later day. On further inves- 
tigation, Marriot was informed that Victor had 
gone on a pleasure trip on the gulf ; and having 
an idea that this was a subterfuge to put me off 
the track, I started for home. But from his let- 
ter I perceive that he had really been on a trial 
trip with his father in their yacht which then 
sustained some damages that delayed his de- 
parture.” 

“What made his case seem so suspicious to 
me,” said Mr. Conde, rather crestfallen, “was 
that he proposed to take Florence to Brunswick 
on a pleasure trip. — That appeared to me like 


244 


ALVIRA. 


one of the baldest attempts to disguise some dis- 
honest purpose. But I suppose it was part of 
his plan to mystify us and to evade the necessity 
of fulfilling his promise to his father, by rousing 
suspicion in us.” 

Florence explained that Victor had been quite 
sincere in making his proposal, but had evidently 
felt relieved of an oppressive burden when she 
informed him, that she had not been consulted in 
the matter, and that she would not consent to be 
his wife. 

‘‘But I can’t understand his offer then to take 
you on a trip to Brunswick, which would have 
required at least a week.” 

“I can possibly explain that,” said Woodson. 
“His father had a steam yacht built, which, after 
some delay, owing to errors and accidents, was 
finally completed, and on the 26th of November, 
Victor started on his way with her, and landed 
some distance from the relay house, arriving so 
much earlier than he was expected. — He was, as 
yet, uncertain about Alvira’s feelings toward 
him, and was ignorant, of course, of Florence’s 
disposition toward me and no doubt wanted to 
fulfill his promise^ and thought a pleasure trip 
in his yacht might facilitate matters.” 


A DENOUEMENT. 


245 


“Well,” said Mr. Conde seriously, “from 
what I know of Mr. St. Cyn, he will never for- 
give his son for evading the fulfilment of his 
agreement merely because a giddy girl had taken 
the notion to be perverse.” — 

“He says,” continued Woodson again refer- 
ring to the letter, “that just before going on 
board the yacht, they were suddenly confronted 
by Beardslow, who was evidently intent on mis- 
chief ; but that they escaped whatever design he 
may have had against them, by the timely ap- 
pearance of some of the men from his yacht, 
who had been attracted by the tumult occasioned 
by a runaway team.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


AWAITING JUDGMENT. 

^UGUSTUS CHARLES VICTOR ST. CYN 
presented himself alone, at his father’s 
residence in New Orleans, where he recounted 
his experience with Miss Conde. 

His father was not a man to be easily excited. 
He had taken a seat after the first greeting, and 
seemed to he immersed in thought, as if duly to 
consider what had been said. But, without wait- 
ing long to hear what his father might answer, 
Victor informed him that he had brought Alvira 
with him in place of Miss Conde; and then 
waited in silence, while the father' scrutinized 
his face. 

“Upon my word,” said the father after they 
had sat thus confronting each other for a period 
that seemed much longer to Victor than it was, 
246 


A WAITING JUDGMENT. 


247 


“You have accomplished a great feat.” 

‘ ‘ I could not, under the existing conditions, try 
to unravel such a plot and force myself into an 
alliance with one who does not care for me. — 
When I agreed to sue for the favor of Miss 
Conde it seemed easy to take this step, if Alvira 
had renounced me, and Miss Conde would ac- 
cept my suit. But, it was different when I 
found that the girl I was to marry was beloved 
by my best friend, and that Alvira was still at- 
tached to me. I did not think you would try to 
make not only me, but also three others unhappy, 
who were not parties to the agreement extorted 
from me, or bound to suffer part of the penalty 
that was to be imposed on me. — Probably you 
do not know that the young lady had not been 
consulted in the matter.” 

“But the history of ages has taught us, by im- 
posing great suffering as a penalty for such 
offenses, that we must fulfill our promises and 
contracts. ’ ’ 

“I think nothing would justify your trying to 
make further demands now from me, since my in- 
nocence of the crime is proved, for which I have 
already suffered so much.” 

“I do not make any demands whatever from 


248 


ALVIRA. 


you. But you, I suppose, expect to profit now by 
the habit I had of invariably fulfilling my con- 
tracts, and expect happiness in spite of your 
faults and errors/ ’ 

“You, of course, will decide whether I shall 
or not. I have borne hardships before, and I can 
do so again. I do not claim the privilege of liv- 
ing in luxury, so long as there are others who 
may suffer more than I shall, even if dependent 
on my own exertions. My great error has been 
that I promised to renounce Alvira. — Almost 
immediately after I had given this promise, I 
received a letter from her, which had been de- 
layed, and which I had so long awaited in vain. 
It was full of affection^ and I was distracted 
at the thought that I must, after that, make a 
proposal of marriage to another ; but I said noth- 
ing of this to you and determined to fulfill my 
promise. I knew then that Alvira was as true 
to me as when she first looked on me almost as a 
superior being ; when, in sympathy with my suf- 
fering, she fainted ; when she prayed for my re- 
lease from torture, and saved my life by her 
appeals and her tender care. — What love can be 
sanctioned if not that which endured through 
suffering and privation, which forgave me, 


.1 WAITING JUDGMENT. 


249 


though I had indirectly caused her father’s 
death and left her to her fate that I might 
prove my loyalty to my country!” 

He paused again as if expecting some remark 
from his father, who, was, however, or seemed 
to be, still immersed in thought. 

“For fully ten hours,” continued Victor, “I 
wandered about in the woods, in the dark streets 
of St. Augustine, and along the shores of the 
river and the bay, trying to find reasons to 
guide me in my decision between making my call 
at Conde’s, and plunging into the river to end 
the troubles that had wrecked all my hopes. — 
After straying around until midnight, and re- 
maining awake all night, I had determined not 
to make the call, when, happening to pass Mr. 
Conde’s house early in the morning, I was 
prompted to step in and announce my arrival; 
and I thought of making a proposal to Miss 
Conde, but I had no encouragement whatever to 
do so, for she declined to receive my attentions. 
I only then perceived what the terrible conse- 
quence might be. How I would appear in the 
eyes of her whom I had implored for but one 
word of consolation to help me bear the thought 
of death ! But Alvira forgave me ; and I can as- 


250 


ALV1RA. 


sure you that no one who sees Alvira, who learns 
anything of her amiable disposition — who comes 
under the influence of her personal charms, — 
could imagine that a union with her would bring 
disgrace. ’ ’ 

“I can understand that your action may have 
been natural ; but I think I can insist on not ful- 
filling my part of the contract, which you have 
seen fit to violate by giving preference to the 
girl, whom you promised to renounce. ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Victor suppressing his feelings 
with a strong effort, ‘ ‘ if this is your determina- 
tion I must rely on my own efforts to find the 
honest means of earning a livelihood.” 

He had spoken with an assumption of confi- 
dence; but there was a misgiving in his heart. 
He remembered his father’s jealous claim of au- 
thority — his faith in the rights of wealth and 
social distinction, and he thought that after this 
last declaration, it would be impossible for the 
stern parent, to unbend and accept the penniless, 
friendless orphan as his daughter, — and what 
would then become of them ? The charge against 
him, had not yet been formally dismissed, and 
with his father arrayed against him in his at- 
tempts to rehabilitate himself, degradation might 


A WAITING JUDGMENT . 


251 


await liim, beside the suffering from poverty. — 
He could not even get courage, to sustain him, 
from the consciousness of being absolutely right ; 
for he had not voluntarily surrendered wealth 
to take his chances with the poor and friendless, 
and after trying to cling to it he might be cast 
out ? without having the right to claim even the 
sympathy of his companions in poverty. 

“Where is Alvirat” said the old man, sud- 
denly starting out of a quiet attitude of medi- 
tation. 

“She is at the hotel awaiting the decision of 
our fate.” 

“Have you seen General Jackson!” 

“No.” 

“What about your commission!” 

“I do not know how that may be.” 

He did not quite understand the object of 
these questions, hut he thought they might indi- 
cate a purpose to relent ; and his heart had been 
for a moment flushed with hope, especially by 
the question concerning Alvira. 

“It would be well,” continued his father in a 
cold monotone, “to take steps to clear yourself 
of any suspicion that may yet rest on you; for 
my confidence in you has again been seriously 


252 


ALVIRA. 


shaken; and I do not now feel inclined to admit 
yon to a participation in the management of 
my affairs. ’ ’ 

“Is it possible that this can be your decis- 
ion ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir. — I suppose I may leave you to the 
expedients which your ready wit will no doubt 
suggest for realizing your plans of happiness. ’ ’ 

Victor was overcome with confusion and for- 
got the common form of politeness in taking 
his leave. His throat felt as if compressed in a 
grip, and his brain seemed whirling as he hur- 
ried through the streets in devious ways to get 
time to consider the problem which confronted 
him. — It seemed terrible to face Alvira now! — 
But he determined to bear the brunt, to tell her 
the truth in the plainest terms, to withhold noth- 
ing which would present the situation in its true 
light. He hurried to the hotel, and recounted 
to her all that had passed, and then expressed his 
determination to throw himself on the mercy of 
Jackson, with a view of being restored to his 
military rank, if possible, or of obtaining some 
position, through the General’s influence, in one 
of the government offices. 

Alvira stood with a firm expression on her 



alvira stood with a firm expression on her face 







f 
































































































AWAITING JUDGMENT. 


253 


face, and was silent for some time. — 

4 4 That, ’ ’ said she at last, 4 4 can never he ! — You 
could not submit patiently to the sacrifice this 
would impose on you ! You may not admit the 
thought of this now, but you would soon be made 
to understand the inferiority of her who brought 
you to this. Even love could not hold out under 
such conditions and I would rather die than bear 
the consciousness of having encouraged you to 
renounce friends, kindred and good fame, for 
one who can offer you no recompense. To love 
me even would be considered a perverted notion, 
and I will not try to cling to a right, which might 
impose continual misery on us both.” 

4 4 Oh, let us not give way to such thoughts/ ’ 
said Victor, who had regarded her with dismay; 
4 4 this darkness may possibly be followed by a 
dawn. If we relinquish our own pride, and rely 
on love and mercy, we may still find a way to 
make life tolerable.” 

4 4 It cannot be that our situation would even be 
tolerable. — If your own father is filled with such 
prejudice against me, on account of my father’s 
misfortune, that he cannot show any sign of re- 
lenting, what will the attitude of others be? — I 
see no prospect, for you, but to discard her who 


254 


ALV1RA. 


has already been the cause of so much suffering 
to you.” 

“Our separation would not soften his heart 
toward me. He will consider it all my fault. 
It is I that have plunged you into this condition. 
— I understand you. You think you could not 
endure more humiliation! — But still it may be 
better to accept what fate has decreed, and bear 
patiently what is in store for us.” 

“You need not endure any humiliation. You 
must only forget the daughter of one who died 
the death of a felon. — It is I that must suffer. — 
There is no being on earth that can have been 
more firmly convinced of future happiness, than 
I was once; but since then my life has been a 
steady downward course, and I can never again 
hope for better days. But I would not see you 
lose your birthright — your chance for happiness. 
You may be assured that, whatever my fortune 
may be, I will, to the last, nourish grateful feel- 
ings for you, though I shall be too wretched 
to call it love. — Whatever shall be my fate, I 
can not suffer more than I do now, or than I 
would under the taunting glances of those, who 
if they would lay bare 'their hearts, would call 
me an outcast.” 


AWAITING JUDGMENT. 


255 


“Oh, speak not so ! We may find mercy. My 
father may yet relent. — But if yon will insist 
on resenting his insult, do not let me feel it. 
Do not repel him who is willing to die with you 
now, if you ask it, or who will share your lot in 
any walk of life. I would implore you with tears, 
but that they are unworthy of a man; and if 
you would part from me, you must take the as- 
surance with you that when you are gone, I can 
not, will not, bear the awful thought of all that 
you will suffer. — If you cannot be happy with 
me, be kind and merciful at least : — let me share, 
sorrow, misery, despair — or death, with you!” 

“Wherever I go, and whatever befalls me, my 
regard for you shall endure until death.” 

“And has your love vanished? — Let us not 
judge the acts of others by the impression we 
get of our own importance in a world so great; 
let not the shadow of one instant be magnified 
into a lifelong calamity! — Could I but impart 
to you the feeling of joy that the assurance of 
your love gave me after I had been almost dis- 
tracted by the threat of death ! Could I but lay 
bare to view the power in me now, and the con- 
stancy of purpose that I feel assured of, to re- 
quite that love by fulfilling God’s purpose, when 


256 


ALVIRA. 


he endowed us with the discretion to understand 
the object of our being, and the power to fulfill 
it according to His will, if we will only be pa- 
tient — . ’ ’ 

He was interrupted by a knocking at the door. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A STRONG REMONSTRANCE. 

ENERAL JACKSON had learned that Vic- 
tor, the young man whom he had, on his 
raid through Florida, held on parole at Fort 
St. Mark, wms the son of the influential and 
wealthy Mr. St. Cyn; and when, about two 
weeks later, the General heard that Reardslow 
had made alterations in the intercepted letters, 
be immediately sent an order for the release of 
Victor, which arrived while Woodson was on 
his trip to Baton Rouge. 

The General had been at St. Mark, where he 
met Woodson, and he arrived at New Orleans on 
the day of the interview between Victor and his 
father. He at once visited Mr. St. Cyn, and met 
him while he was yet brooding over the alterca- 
tion with his son ; and he plainly told him that 
his treatment of Victor was outrageous. 

/‘But how could I do otherwise than I did? 
First he disgraces himself in the eyes of all St. 

257 


258 


ALV1RA. 


Augustine, and insults the young lady he prom- 
ised to marry by running off with this girl, 
against whom I had especially issued an inter- 
dict; and now he brings her to a hotel, instead 
of presenting her to me, and expects me to for- 
give him at once, without ever having seen her. ’ ’ 

“I think this may have been justifiable, since 
you seemed to have made up your mind to act 
in a manner that certainly would have been very 
offensive to her.” 

“I don’t know about that. Our young people 
always act contrary and charge us with tyranny, 
if we try to make them observant of their er- 
rors.” 

“Well,” said the General, “I, for my part, do 
not hesitate to admit that life might almost be 
intolerable for them, if we could compel them 
always to be just like you and me; and I can’t 
well see that there is any justification for us, if 
we will not use the advantages we have gained 
by our unyielding spirit, during our long strug- 
gles and sacrifices to enable others who are of a 
different mould, and who are endeared to us by 
natural ties, to go through life without expe- 
riencing all the troubles we had. There is no 
excuse for the acquisition of power in this coun- 


A STRONG REMONSTRANCE. 


259 


try, unless it is to uphold the only principles on 
which a republic can possibty stand, by yielding 
acknowledgment to the natural rights of men. — 
To consummate this, all men must, of course, 
first of all be prepared to overcome their faults ; 
but after that they must also avoid the arro- 
gance which always seeks to fortify itself with 
cowardly privileges. The presence of the old 
and the strong among the weak can have but 
one legitimate object, which is to guide and to 
assist them, as friends.” 

“But consider his acts during the past few 
years, and, at last, his violation of the promise 
to fulfill his contract to marry a highly culti- 
vated, estimable and amiable young lady out of 
one of the best families of Florida, and his 
bringing, instead of her, the daughter of a semi- 
barbarian, who lived all her life among the In- 
dians, with the deliberate purpose of introducing 
her into my home, and into the polite society of 
New Orleans! — Whenever I think of that, my 
heart turns against him.” 

“But she is not the daughter of a semi-bar- 
barian.” 

“Well, you may call her what you will, but she 
is not one fitted to associate with the best so- 


260 


ALVIRA. 


ciety of our commonwealth, as would become the 
wife of my son.” 

“I do not presume to estimate what the exact 
social status of your friends or even of your son 
may be, but this much I have ascertained, that 
if any importance is to be attached to the acci^ 
dent of birth, the young lady, whom your son 
has brought here to present to you as your 
daughter-in-law, was by birth, to all the intents 
and purposes of the strictest social regulations, 
even among your so-called highest class, as 
justly entitled to recognition in that class, as any 
one that enjoys this distinction.” 

‘ ‘How can you explain that!” 

“I can prove it by reference to the official rec- 
ords of the State of Georgia, according to which 
certain real and personal property of Oliver 
Renfrow, situated in that state was, by him, 
deeded to his step-daughter , Alvira, the daughter 
of the nobleman who was slain by the Indians 
near the border of Mississippi Territory, and 
whose wife and child were carried off into the 
dense wilderness of the Indian Country, where 
Renfrow married the widow some eighteen 
months after her abduction.” 

“Is this possible!” 


A STRONG REMONSTRANCE. 


201 


4 4 Yes, sir! — Here,” continued the General 
handing St. Cyn a folded paper, “is an abstract, 
according to the entry made sixteen years ago, 
of the deed of conveyance of this property, to 
Madame De Lysias in trust for her daughter, 
Alvira De Lysias, the said Alvira being then 
three years of age ; and of a subsequent deed of 
conveyance by which Renfrow himself became 
the trustee of his step-daughter, after her moth- 
er’s death.” 

1 i When did you discover this ? ’ ’ 

“Only recently through the endeavors of this 
fellow, Beardslow, who for his own selfish pur- 
poses had been investigating the official records, 
and has, by this, indirectly been the means of 
disclosing these important facts. The secrecy 
which Beardslow observed about his purpose, in 
examining the records, roused the curiosity of 
the officials at Milledgeville, who from a casual 
remark he made, discovered this entry and re- 
ported it to me. — You know that Beardslow is 
the man who has been conspiring against your 
son!” 

“So Charles has told me.— But is this really 
a fact? Were his letters really altered?” 

“Why certainly !— You haven’t a particle of 


202 


AL I r lRA . 


doubt about that, by this time, I hope?” 

“Well, a person never knows exactly what to 
think about these matters. Has Beardslow ad- 
mitted that he altered the letters?” 

“Yes; he lias made a confession; but compe- 
tent witnesses had previously established the 
fact that they were altered ; and the whole course 
of this fellow furnishes the best proof that he 
was one of the shrewdest schemers, and worked 
with the single purpose of possessing himself 
of this girl and her property. He knew several 
months ago that she was not Renf row’s daugh- 
ter; but I suppose he kept this secret even from 
her, to prevent the possibility of her communi- 
cating it to your son, and enabling him thus, to 
remove your prejudice against her. He had, 
by intercepting your son’s letters, placed himself 
into communication with you. He followed Al- 
vira to Milledgeville, and, though he failed to 
find her, he obtained a clue to the early history 
of Renfrow, his marriage and real estate trans- 
fers, and all the facts concerning Alvira’s pater- 
nity. He confessed that he had always laid par- 
ticular stress, in his letters to you, on the dan- 
ger of your son’s being not only in sympathy 
with the Indians, but in danger also on account 


A STRONG REMONSTRANCE. 


263 


of his infatuation for this girl, who had lived 
among the Indians so long, of committing him- 
self to overt acts. And I can well understand 
that it was as natural for you, as it had been 
for me, to hold your son in distrust and consider 
him capable of treasonable intercourse with the 
Indians.” 

“But how could this man manage to inter- 
cept all these letters?” 

“A Spanish firm of traders had the contract 
for transmitting the mails between the Spanish 
territory and the border settlements of the 
United States, and he had obtained a position 
as clerk in their employ.” 

“Well,” said St. Cvn at last, “if you can 
guarantee this girl's rank, and he will promise 
to undergo a preliminary term in the practical 
management of my concerns under my strict 
supervision, I would have no objection to calling 
on them, and offering him a chance to show that 
he is worthy of my assistance.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


RELENTING. 

r F v HE caller who had interrupted Victor and 
Alvira, in their anxious discourse at the 
hotel, was a messenger, who brought a summons 
from the General to Victor, to visit him, and 
whom Victor at once accompanied. 

The General explained the agreement between 
him and old Mr. St. Cyn, according to which 
the latter would call to see the young couple and 
propose conditions, which he specified, and to 
which he requested Victor to give his most care- 
ful consideration. The General said nothing, as 
yet, of the discovery made concerning Alvira’s 
paternal ancestry. 

But Victor and Alvira were not yet at the end 
of their trials; and the day had almost waned, 
when they finally concluded that the father had 
not made up Iris mind to come, and agreed that 
Victor should again proceed to the quarters of 
the General. But they were thrown into a great 
264 


RELENTING. 


265 


commotion, at last, by the announcement that a 
gentleman wished to see them. 

When the gentleman, accordingly, was ush- 
ered in, they found themselves confronted by the 
father. 

The old gentleman’s attention was immedi- 
ately attracted by the grace of his daughter-in- 
law, as she stood before him with a slight flush 
on her face, looking expectantly at him with 
earnest eyes. She knew from the description 
Victor had given her that this was his father, 
and all thought of opposition gave way, as she 
realized the significance of this visit. She was 
overcome by the power of love, which recalled 
the effect of Victor’s plea to let him share her 
lot, whatever it might be. Victor’s glance met 
hers. Moved by a sudden impulse, he ap- 
proached his father, and, taking his hand, intro- 
duced Alvira : 

“This is my wife, Father,” said he with an 
earnest expression on his face. The old man 
was evidently overcome by a kind feeling and 
stepped forward. 

Alvira knelt down before him. 

“Father,” continued Victor in a low tone,” 
“we are at your mercy. She is not to blame. I 


266 


ALVIRA. 


persuaded her to come with me. I will suffer 
the penance if any is required; but I hope you 
will not forsake us.” 

The old man took Alvira ’s hand and bade her 
rise. 

“Welcome,” said he, also in a low tone, and 
then drawing her toward him he saluted her with 
a kiss, adding, “What a pleasure it is to see 
you!” and then, turning to Victor, he shook his 
hand whereupon they all seated themselves on a 
sofa and began to ask and answer the many 
questions that naturally welled up from their 
hearts, until the father finally invited them to 
step into his carriage, and took them to the 
family residence. 

Alvira was at once made to feel at home, the 
important secret was revealed to her shortly 
afterwards, and the family circle was made at- 
tractive for Mr. St. Cyn’s old-time acquaint- 
ances, by the liberality with which he provided 
for their entertainment at a number of festivi- 
ties arranged in honor of the return of the new- 
found son and his wife. — 

Mr. Conde did not worry very much about the 
failure of the St. Cyn engagement with his 
daughter, and he managed to demonstrate to his 


RELENTING. 


267 


own satisfaction that he had been right, after 
all, by asserting that neither Woodson nor Victor 
would have been so eager to marry, but for his 
plan to unite Florence with St. Cyn. 

Lydia had been found in the isolated cottage 
of a poor gardner, some distance below the fort, 
from where she was conveyed in a palanquin to 
her home ? in a state of unconsciousness. Froard 
had been taken to the fort, suffering from in- 
juries sustained in the wreck, which it was first 
thought, might prove fatal ; and Beardslow, who 
had caused the accident, had disappeared. 

Four days after the accident to Lydia and 
Froard, a horseman, had been detected at mid- 
night near the camp of the United States forces 
who were still holding Fort St. Mark and scour- 
ing the country after hostile Indians. The re- 
pose of the sleeping men was disturbed by the 
report of a musket which a sentinel had dis- 
charged as an alarm when he perceived the move- 
ments of the intruder, who was soon captured 
and taken into custody. 

Information as to his name and character was 
obtained from papers and letters upon his per- 
son, revealing that he was Beardslow, the man 
against whom an attachment had been recently 


268 


ALVIRA. 


issued. A court-martial had been convened, 
shortly before this, by order of Gen. Jackson, 
which, after having tried a number of other 
prisoners, was also required to decide upon a 
charge against Beardslow, of having conspired 
with the Indians against the United States 
troops, and with committing a forgery to encom- 
pass the arrest of an officer of the United States 
on false charges; and he was found guilty of 
both indictments and sentenced to be shot, be- 
fore the main body of the United States forces 
should depart from St. Mark. 

In face of the character of the condemned man 
and the circumstances of the case, the sentence 
may appear to have been just; yet even the 
men chosen with regard to their fitness to exe- 
cute the sentence with firmness, were affected 
when the dread moment of execution arrived. 

The conceit had clung to Beardslow that he 
belonged by birth to a privileged class, who were 
never held accountable exactly in the same way 
that others were. He had seen others pay the 
extreme penalty for offenses no graver than his 
own; but they were of another class. Even 
Americans respected certain privileges of the 
higher caste, he had been told. He knew that 


RELENTING . 


269 


the court-martial had, out of regard for his rank 
as an officer and a member of a respectable for- 
eign family, reconsidered their first decision and 
sent a letter, by messenger, to Jackson at New 
Orleans, recommending a commutation of the 
sentence to imprisonment; and, though it was 
thought that Jackson might disregard this plea, 
to Beardslow it seemed equivalent to an assur- 
ance of life, — 0 precious life! — He had, in the 
first ecstacy upon the receipt of this informa- 
tion, looked placidly out of the dungeon in which 
he was confined, and pictured to himself a new 
life when he should have expiated his faults by 
this imprisonment. — He would then return to his 
home! — He hoped that a confiding girl, in his 
native country, who had promised to wait for 
him would be as happy as he to hear of this com- 
mutation and forgive his faults, and he would 
write to her. But after he had indulged these 
fond hopes a week, during which the officer in 
command had awaited an answer, a feeling of 
misgiving began to steal over him when he saw 
certain preparations in the court yard of the 
fort, and remembered the inflexible spirit of 
Jackson. And, even while he was in this con- 
dition of suspense, an officer entered to notify 


270 


ALV1RA . 


him that he should prepare for execution. 

The officer, out of sympathy, stayed with him 
a while, and Beardslow in the anguish of his 
heart made a full confession. 

His father had procured a lieutenancy for him, 
which had been but a precarious means of main- 
taining a place in society, while subjecting him 
to indignities from the overbearing spirit of men 
of inferior intelligence, who outranked him oth- 
erwise. He had become involved in a duel with 
an officer, whom he had wounded, and had been 
suspended from service for two years. During 
this enforced idleness he had fallen in love, but 
though he had found favor, he had to flee from 
the wrath of his antagonist’s family, when the 
latter died; and fortune seemed thereafter to 
have deserted him. He was prevented from re- 
turning to Europe, when the two years had ex- 
pired, and he had never written to the girl. He 
had hoped from day to day, rather than make 
practical efforts, and had been led to commit one 
error after another, in speculative efforts to re- 
trieve his fortunes. 

His story of his first experience, as a stranger 
in the New World filled with impracticable, fan- 
ciful plans of winning fame and fortune and re- 


RELENTING. 


271 


turning to claim his bride and realize his dreams 
of happiness, were affecting. And, as repre- 
sented from his own point of view, his aims in 
the affair with Alvira did not appear repre- 
hensible. He broke down when he spoke of his 
infatuation for the beautiful orphan whose lot 
had been cast among the Indians, and thought 
how different things might have been if he had 
steadfastly cherished his affections for his first 
love. He admitted that there could have been 
no significance in Alvira ’s bearing that she ever 
meant to encourage him, though her presence 
had always exerted an overpowering influence 
on him. 

The eyes of the officer filled with tears when 
he saw the wretched man deeply moved by these 
recollections, but he recovered his composure 
and bade the prisoner to summon fortitude to 
die in a manner worthy of his former rank in 
life. 

“I will,” said Beardslow, with an effort; 
“but,” added he in a low tone, “it is awful to 
face such a doom.” 

After remaining absorbed in thought for a 
while, he turned to the officer. 

“The General has answered your letter!” 


272 


ALV1RA. 


“Yes.” 

“And he has refused to grant a reprieve ?” 
“Yes.” 

“Then I am ready,” said Beardslow; and 
after a painful silence of a few moments during 
which he had stared into vacancy, he added, 
“you shall see that I can meet death, even in 
this manner, with fortitude.” 

“Not I,” exclaimed the officer. “My regi- 
ment has received orders to march; my time 
for departure has come — farewell.” 

His eyes again filled with tears ; his hand met 
Beardslow ’s and shook it with a convulsive 
grasp ; and the kindhearted man hurried away. — 

Beardslow threw himself on his cot, and for a 
time was entirely overcome by emotion ; and then 
he lay quiet until the muffled sound of drums 
was heard that announced the moment of his 
doom. 

A subaltern in command of two files of sol- 
diers entered the room, Beardslow rose and 
silently took his place between the two files, and 
with a firm step walked to the place of execu- 
tion. 

There were no others but these soldiers pres- 
ent to witness his death. They were themselves 


RELENTING. 


273 


visibly affected. They were placed ten yards 
distant from the prisoner, the sergeant stood at 
their side to give them orders, their muskets 
were in rest, and the sergeant finally gave the 
command to aim. — 

Suddenly, the sound of a galloping horse was 
heard. 

The sergeant turned about, and, seeing that 
the rider was waving his hand, awaited his ap- 
proach. 

The messenger quickly descended from his 
horse and handed the sergeant a letter which 
he at once opened, though it was addressed to 
his superior officer. — 

Jackson had received the recommendation for 
a reprieve for Beardslow and immediately dis- 
patched the messenger with a refusal. Shortly 
afterwards, Victor had called to thank him for 
using his influence in his favor and mentioned 
the happy denouement, and the General, in turn, 
informed him of the appeal for a reprieve for 
Beardslow, endorsed by several members of the 
court-martial; whereupon Victor added his re- 
quest for leniency toward his old antagonist,, 
admitting that Beardslow had some provocation 
for the wrong he had done, and he pleaded so 


274 


ALV1RA. 


earnestly to be spared the self-reproach, which 
would haunt him if Beardslow should be exe- 
cuted, that the General had written an order 
for a commutation, and dispatched the messen- 
ger with it, urging him to ride as though his life 
depended on preventing the execution. 

The End. 












































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